


One spark, sun becoming

by SolainRhyo



Category: Death Stranding, Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Coercion, Everything sexual is entirely consensual, F/M, Higgs and his bombs, Higgs struggles with reality, Higgs struggles with sanity, Higgs' unusual recruitment methods, Manipulation, Mules, Not a healthy relationship, Not a lot of fluff here, Not sure what speed of burn this is, Porter life, Porter/Higgs sex, Reader Insert, Reader's a porter, Trigger warnings for violence and tough subject matter, Violence, Weird Romance, lying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-01-31 18:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21450577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolainRhyo/pseuds/SolainRhyo
Summary: Higgs is chaos and he finds you beneath a timefall shelter. He's fickle and dramatic and entirely unwilling to keep you out of his web of destruction.
Relationships: Higgs Monaghan/Reader, Higgs/Reader, Higgs/You
Comments: 166
Kudos: 756





	1. God's sent conspirator

There’d been a time not so long ago when you'd had trouble falling asleep. Insomnia, or something very close to it. You’d lie awake and stare at the ceiling and think about things that had no bearing or relevance on your life as it currently was. Come morning you’d be exhausted, grumpy, frustrated, but could still dredge up the will to shower and get dressed and join the other cogs in the machine. That was life, all of it. Just wash, rinse and repeat, mindless drudgery broken here and there by small things less tedious and more welcome. 

Strange that of everything that’s changed in the world and your life and well, existence, its your ability to sleep that’s changed. You’re able to drift off easily now, almost without exception save those times you find yourself knee deep in places you really shouldn’t be. Right here and right now, though, you are safely tucked up against the base of a timefall shelter, legs stretched out before you, crossed at the ankles. You’ve removed your pack and cargo — such as it is, quite a light load this time — and they’re stacked next to you. Both your arms are folded across your chest. This storm had blown in quickly as they tend to do with more frequency these days, and you’d resigned yourself to spending the next couple of hours kneeling amid gorse shrubs with your heart in your throat as you struggled not to breathe too quickly. Fortune, fickle bitch as she usually is, had decided today to surprise you: no BTs with this storm, just rain, thunder, and wind. So you kept walking briskly until you saw the familiar circular glow of a shelter in the distance, altered your direction accordingly, and now here you are. 

Friendly as you are with sleep nowadays, it doesn’t take long at all for drowsiness to creep over you. You feel it first in your shoulders as it eases the perpetual ache there and then in your neck as it soothes the line of fire running from your nape to the base of your skull, tension that came on from the expectation of having to wade through BTs. Soon enough tiredness envelops all of you and you give into it, letting your head rest back against the shelter column and closing your eyes. All you’re focusing on now is the sound of timefall outside this cozy little radius you currently reign over, countless drops of water inundating the world without. It’s such a soothing sound from such a cruel source. You doze, wake briefly a short time later to shift position, close your eyes, and sleep again. 

When you wake next, you’re not alone. 

There’s someone standing a few feet away, just under the shelter’s overhang, peering out into the rain in the direction of the wind farm. Porters tend to wear variations on a theme, sacrificing style in favor of utility. Though you’re only viewing him in profile, it seems this man has gone in favor of the former over the latter, though he is geared with an odradek. You’re pretty sure that’s a hooded cloak he’s wearing, along with tan field pants and what looks like military issue boots. He’s not armed from what you can see, which both concerns and disturbs you. Nobody in their right mind ventures out of a shelter without some form of protection. Because of his hood you can’t see much of his face save for his cheek and chin, both sporting the faint hit of a dark beard. He pays you no mind as you push yourself into a more upright position, nor as you give your cargo a quick look to make sure it’s all still there. You eye him curiously for a few more minutes, wondering if he’ll speak and hoping he doesn’t. You’re used to crossing paths with people as you work, but typically those people are other porters. You’re not sure what to make of this one. If all he wants is a respite from timefall, that’s fine. There’s more than enough room for the two of you.

It keeps raining, though the wind is starting to abate. You arrange yourself into a cross-legged position, leaning back against the column again. A yawn overtakes you, followed by another, and even though this stranger has said or done nothing unwelcome you’re not about to nod off while he’s in the vicinity (you choose to ignore the fact you’d been asleep when he first arrived). The two of you continue to wait out the storm in silence. Finally the man stirs, turning to look down at you. He’s got a BB pod, you realize, and your curiosity increases tenfold. He’s not a porter or if he is, he’s one with connections in high places. 

“It’s not letting up,” he says conversationally. 

“Doesn’t seem like it,” you respond. Your voice is slightly hoarse; you don’t speak much when out on assignment.

“Hope you’re not in a particular hurry.” He indicates your cargo with a thrust of his chin. 

Great. Small talk, something you don’t really excel at. In an effort to be civil, you shake your head. “No. Not today.”

“Not today, huh?” From what you can see of his face beneath his hood, you can see that he’s wearing an open, affable smile. He speaks with a notable twang. “Change of pace?”

Another shake of your head. “Urgent deliveries tend to require equipment I don’t have.” Your eyes flick to his BB pod. 

“Ah.” One of his hands settles on top of the piece of equipment in question. “Fair enough.”

You adjust position again, having chosen to sit at a spot with a rock that seems destined to dig into your posterior no matter what you do. The stranger takes a couple steps forward and sits facing you, looping his arms around his knees. He’s settling in.

“You independent?” he asks after a minute.

You laugh a little. “Hell, _no._”

His mouth quirks upward. “Don’t have the right equipment?”

“Or the right attitude. I like being alive.”

“Kinda overrated, though, isn’t it?” He tilts his head. Before you can think of a reply to that odd statement, he’s speaking again. “So. Not independent, then. Who are you with? Clearly not Bridges.”

“Clearly,” you reply wryly. Bridges employees tend to have their company logo emblazoned numerous places on their attire. You’re sporting no such labeling anywhere on your blue overalls or gear. You think about it for a few seconds and decide there can be no harm in giving him the answer. “Sentencer Services.”

“Never heard of them. New?”

You nod. “Kind of. Localized around Mountain Knot for the first year, only expanded out a few months ago.”

“So you’re new to these parts.”

You shrug. “I’m getting used to it.”

He shifts, leaning forward a bit, giving you an appraising look. His eyes are blue, you notice, and lined with black. Unusual, but hey, whatever works for him. He says, “Company porters usually work in pairs or packs.”

“Ours don’t.”

“Brave.”

“Or foolish,” you admit, shrugging again. “Our routes are simple and direct. We don’t take many assignments that are off the beaten path. We’re told not to take risks and if it gets too bad, just turn back. We’re maybe not the fastest porter service out there, but we’re entirely reliable, as many in the Mountain Knot area would attest.”

“What about MULEs?”

“I make an effort to avoid them. Others don’t, with mixed results.”

“You’re armed, though?”

“Yeah. Leaving a shelter without a weapon seems like a bad time these days.” You give him a look that’s a little pointed. If he notices, he doesn’t acknowledge it. You go on to say, “It’s not all bad. Pretty tolerable, actually. The worst of course are—”

“The BTs,” he finishes for you. 

“The BTs,” you echo, nodding.

“So what do you do when they’re around?”

“Retreat, if I can.”

“And if you can’t?”

“Stay very, very still. Breathe quietly. Try not to run screaming. Standard procedure.” Despite your nonchalant reply, you feel that twinge of pain running up the back of your neck again, the same pain that occurs every time you find yourself confronted with the terrifying quandary that the BTs represent. You get the feeling he’s aware that you’re not nearly as cavalier about this matter as you’re pretending to be. You don’t know if you like that. It makes you uncomfortable and you find yourself looking away from him, out into the rain.

A short silence falls, which he eventually breaks. “My name’s Peter,” he offers, and you return your eyes to him. “Peter Englert.” He holds out his gloved hand, which takes you by surprise. The handshake doesn’t make much of an appearance in this day and age. After some deliberation you extend your own hand, also gloved, and clasp his. This is the first time you’ve shaken hands with someone since… well, a very long time. It feels odd. 

“Peter,” you repeat as you release your grasp. “I’m _____.”

“_____. Glad to make your acquaintance, ma’am.” 

There’s that twang again, emphasized this time for comedic effect. It works; you smile. 

You ask, “You with Bridges?”

“Do I look like I am?”

“…No,” you acknowledge after studying him intently for a minute. “But you have a BB, so…”

His expression would be blank if not for the slight upward pull at the corners of his mouth. He’s going to keep his secrets, looks like, and you suspect he enjoys doing so. You’re positive he _is_ a part of Bridges in one form or another. You give an inward shrug and phrase your next question. “So then where are you headed?”

“Wind farm. And then back to Port Knot.”

You let out a low whistle. That’s a lot of miles and it’s already midday. “You’re not going to make both today.”

“No?” He quirks an eyebrow, smiling. It seems like maybe there’s a mocking edge to his expression but you blink and whatever you thought you’d seen is gone. He is as he has been this entire time, easy-going and amiable. Harmless. “You’re right,” he concedes with a sigh. “Which is why as soon as this rain breaks I’m headed for the wind farm. I’ll make Port tomorrow.”

It seems as though the weather has heard him, because the downfall lessens to a drizzle almost instantaneously. Weird. The heavy gray ceiling of clouds begins to thin and sunlight pierces through in places. You transition to a kneeling position, wincing just a little as certain muscles protest the movement. It’s been a little over two years since you got into this line of work and your body still finds a way to lodge complaints.

Peter watches as you retie the laces on your boots, which are hard not to notice as they’re bright purple. They’re your only aesthetic indulgence. On cue he comments, “Those are nice.”

“I think so,” you agree. You get a lot of remarks about your laces, enough so that it’s become a defining factor. You don’t mention that fellow porters at Sentencer Services have taken to calling you ‘Boots.’

“Where are you going?” he asks as you get to your feet and take a step toward your cargo. He’s standing, too, and it’s then you realize the inner lining of his cloak is gold striped with black. It’s incredibly eye-catching, which is presumably the intent. It takes a second for you to re-focus on what he’s said. 

“Waystation,” you reply, kneeling and sliding your arms through your pack straps. “Then Capital, then back west.”

“There’s only one working boat. Your company has an arrangement with Fragile?”

You nod, looking at him in confusion. The only way to Central is via that particular boat. “Don’t you?”

“I have other ways of getting around.” Seeing your questioning look, he elaborates with an expression you can only call mischievous, “I’m a resourceful man.”

“You must be,” you say as you tighten the straps. You take a deep breath, brace yourself, and slowly get to your feet. The weight on your back is heavy but not staggering, but you immediately feel the burn in your shoulders and across your upper back. It’s not as bad today as it usually is, though. Besides, after an hour or two you get kind of numb to it. 

“Can I beg a favor, ____?”

You’re pretty sure you know what’s coming because it’s happened before. One of the pitfalls of the job. “Sure.”

“I’ve got a little something here destined for the Waystation. I was going to drop it off if I had time. There’s no real rush. Being as you’re headed that way, would you mind…?”

He’s holding a small parcel, small enough that you could carry it in one of the pouches on your pack. It would add maybe three pounds to your load, if that. However, it’s against Sentencer rules — logged packages only. Then again, you’re so far away from Sentencer HQ that literally nobody would know save you and Peter. He waits patiently as you deliberate. 

“What is it?” you inquire. It’s a rude question, but so is asking a porter to deliver an unlogged package. 

“Jewelery for a friend.”

“That’s a lot of jewelery.”

He rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s a very good friend.”

Another moment of deliberation and you reach a decision, holding out your hand. He beams at you, placing the package in your palm. You kneel again, unfastening straps and sliding your pack off your shoulders. You’re able to tuck the parcel in one of your pack’s pouches without having to rearrange too much. Once you’re on your feet again with everything as it should be, you look beyond the shelter’s overhang to see the rain has almost completely stopped. 

“Should be able to make good time now,” Peter remarks. 

“Hope so.”

“Don’t stay at the Waystation tonight,” he tells you, his voice suddenly sober. Its such an abrupt change in tone that you look at him, bewildered. “More bad weather coming,” he goes on to explain. “The kind that brings BTs. And it might linger. Better to push on on or you might be stuck there a while.”

You take a few steps forward, eyeing the sky. The clouds have almost broken completely and you see no signs of thunderheads on the horizon. Peter follows, stepping up beside you. “Trust me. I have a knack for knowing this kind of thing.”

You stare at him, frowning, and he returns your look with one of blithe earnestness. Peter, you’re beginning to realize, is many things all rolled into one. It seems like he’d be an interesting — and maybe frustrating — person to know, in different circumstances. 

“Okay,” you say slowly. “I won’t stay at the Waystation.”

He nods in approval, placing a hand on your shoulder. You stiffen, a reaction you can’t stop because like handshakes, friendly touching gestures have become something rare. He ignores your reponse. “Thank you for taking my package, even though I know you’re not supposed to.”

“You’re welcome. Just don’t start telling people or I could lose my job.”

He chuckles, because the state of the world would make the scenario you’ve just described damn near impossible, because the two of you will never cross paths again. You start moving, walking out from under the shelter’s protective roof and it’s there you pause, half-turning. “Bye, Peter. Was nice to meet you.”

He tips his head forward. “Same, ____.”

You start walking east, hands tucked beneath your pack straps, following the dirt path as it meanders through grass, rocks, and weeds. A few minutes later you halt, bothered by the faintest flicker of misgiving, turning back around to look back at the shelter. Peter is gone. You can’t see him anywhere, not walking north, west, or south. Just… gone. After a couple minutes of searching you shake your head, turn, and resume your trek. 

You reach the Waystation in good time, skirting around MULE territory without incident by sticking to the river’s edge. It’s late afternoon, verging on dusk, and you know you can make Capital before full dark even if you take the high road, which you fully intend to do in order to avoid an area rife with BTs. You hand over your delivery at the terminal, sliding Peter’s package on top the other three crates, noting its address label is clearly marked for a name you don’t recognize here at the Waystation. George Baton isn’t there to greet you today. Instead you get to deal with the terminal’s automated system. Once you’ve logged your relevant information and your delivery is accepted, you make your way out of the Waystation, enjoying the fact that ache across your back and shoulders has receded to nigh-undetectable levels. 

You head southeast, wading across the river toward the bluff where other porters, working in blind and unplanned conjunction, have pieced together a trail of ladders and climbing anchors. You’ve used this trail often despite the additional distance it adds because you’d rather climb any number of cliffs than have to wade through BT territory. Still, hauling yourself up ropes and then again up ladders is hard work even without cargo, and you have to stop a couple of times to catch your breath. Once you’ve reached the bluff’s edge you take a minute to enjoy the scenery below, grassland split by many rivers as they snake their way out to the sea. The sun’s getting low and subsequently the horizon is beginning to take on shades of deep orange and red. The imminent promise of nightfall gets you moving again and you pick your way through the rocks toward the east where another ladder and rope trail awaits to take you back down. 

The world trembles suddenly, knocking you to all fours while at the same time your ears are assaulted by a thunderous crack. Terrified, the first place you look is up, fully expecting to see insidious dark strands descending from clouds. The sky is clear. You unsteadily lurch to your feet and turn and look back over the plain you’ve just traversed and — _holy fuck!_ — the Waystation is—is— 

_—not there. _

You see fire. You see smoke, thick and black and billowing upward, obscuring from your sight the more horrific details of what you’re already unraveling in your mind. An explosion, undeniably and irrefutably. But how? And then you know, you know, because something like this has already happened once before on a far larger scale. 

Peter is not part of Bridges. Peter is a terrorist. And Peter had given you — fucking _stupid, idiotic, hopeless_ you — a bomb. And you’d accepted it because he’d been nice, because you wanted to be nice in turn, because you’re apparently incapable of exercising caution. You’d accepted it and taken it right where it needed to be and now he’s nowhere near the scene of the crime. 

But you are.

You sink to your knees, one hand fisted over your mouth, and watch as the Waystation burns.

**.x.**


	2. Treading the threshold

It wasn’t a bomb. That’s the official news at least, which you view on the newsfeed the moment you set foot in Capital Knot hours later. You stare with disbelief at the vidscreen set high on the wall, at the scrolling text detailing that’s what happened to the Waystation, and are unable to process what you’re seeing. No mention of a bomb, at all—instead they’re saying it was an explosion caused by a timefall damaged fuel cell that had somehow escaped inspection protocols.

Not a bomb. But you _know _ it was. It had to be, didn’t it? Or could it just really be a terrible coincidence, these two events? You keep watching the vidscreen as it details that casualties are numbering in the dozens. There may be more; rescue operations have only just gotten underway and will likely be stymied at some point by timefall. But people _are_ dead. The Waystation is gone, destroyed very shortly after you delivered a package that may or may not have been a bomb.

Your strand and credentials were scanned the moment you stepped foot inside Capital city limits, just as they were when you stopped at the Waystation. Bridges’ officials know you’re here and know you were there. It’s only a matter of time before they come to speak with you because you were presumably the last (or one of the last) people to deliver to the Waystation before the explosion. You book a private room, because you don’t know what else to do or where else to go. Safely within its confines, you slowly divest yourself of your porter trappings. Your thoughts are caught in a loop of anxiety and doubt and fear, and once your tired and dirty self is in the shower you turn on the water as hot as you can stand it, sink to the floor, and wrap your arms around your knees. You bear the customary blemishes of a porter—skin rubbed raw from straps and buckles, myriad scrapes and bruises from the inevitable spills and tumbles that are simply a part of the job. Despite your gloves and footwear (both top of the line, justified expenses) your hands and feet are rough and calloused. The toll of being a porter has changed your body a great deal from what it once was.

You stay in the shower until the water starts to cool and then you finish up. Done and dried, you sort through the very few personal belongings you bring with you to find the oversized shirt you sleep in. Your other clothing, your porter garb and the lightweight, moisture-wicking gear you wear beneath, has gone to the nearest laundry service. In the morning it will be waiting for you in a folded pile outside your door, alongside breakfast, and all of it complimentary. There are some perks to being one of the insane few willing to lug cargo through a landscape plagued by timefall, MULEs, and BTs.

You collapse on the bed, dim the lights from the panel conveniently located near your pillow, and fold your arms across your stomach. There’s no way you’ll be able to sleep, not yet. There are too many thoughts for you to sort through. If Bridges security shows up at the door in the morning you won’t be surprised. You may not be arrested for what’s happened. They may believe you were conned into doing someone else’s dirty work, that you really _were_ that stupid and gullible. Which you were. Beyond a doubt. But what about what you’d seen on Bridges news? What if it really _was _a damaged fuel cell?

With a growl of frustration, you roll over and bury your face in the pillow. Part of what you like about being a porter is the simplicity, along with the isolation and yes, the uncertainty. Well, you’ve sure got the latter in spades now. You wish you would have kept your mouth shut back there beneath that shelter. You shouldn’t have engaged Peter. You should have collected your cargo and just walked out into the rain. Before you drift off to sleep you’re able to think of at least a dozen more should-haves.

Unsurprisingly, you dream of fire.

**.x.**

Nobody comes for you the next day, or the day after that. The story regarding the Waystation is the same: a damaged fuel cell that escape initial inspection protocols was responsible. You don’t leave your room much (or at all) and instead spend the waking hours locked in deliberation. The proper thing to do, the _right _ thing to do, would be to turn yourself in. To tell UCA authorities that you’d carried an unlogged package and delivered it to the Waystation. That you can’t verify the identity of the sender. That you _strongly _suspect the package you delivered contained an incendiary device. You should do all of those things. You should do what’s right.

You don’t.

It could be cowardice. It probably is. You try to justify your decision to walk out of Capital Knot three days after the Waystation explosion by telling yourself that there’s no definitive proof that ties you to the disaster. You try to justify it and fail. What it all comes down to, in those moments that you’re inescapably pinioned by your own brutal introspection, is that you’re too afraid to lose what you have, even though it’s very little by measure of most. Your freedom to roam a deadly land in deadly times isn’t something you can live without. You’d spent years, too many of them, living below ground in a shelter community, surrounded by family, unable to escape them. You know what domestic comfort looks like and you’ve chosen to forsake it.

You’re able to leave the west without incident after two days of hard trekking. The boat isn’t at Port Knot and you have to wait another day for it to arrive and a day after that before it leaves again. Several hours later and you’re back on familiar ground and the rush of relief you feel is almost staggering. Lake Knot is many, many miles from the territory most known to you but it’s still a part of home. You start planning as you make your way out of the harbor. You could return to Mountain Knot but the chiral network hasn’t advanced that far yet, which means it would be back to basics shuttling cargo between all the preppers in the vicinity. If you stay around here, on the other hand, you’ll presumably be able to choose from deliveries that send you further east than the huge Distribution Centre to the south, which as far as you’ve ventured. You’re not quite ready to go home yet despite everything or maybe because of it, and that’s why you soon find yourself descending the ramp into Lake Knot’s distribution area.

There are two porters inside, clad in the white overalls that indicate they’re freelance, sitting off to one side with their cargo piled high between them. They’re likely taking a short break before setting out again. They both nod at you and you raise a hand in greeting before crossing over to the terminal. You log in and start scrolling through the available orders: fragile cargo destined back the way you came, so that’s a no. A few crates of smart drugs meant for two preppers within relatively close proximity to each other. The “Urgent” tag catches your eye—pizza delivery, from here to a prepper shack to a west. Intrigued, you select it in order to view more details. You’ve never delivered pizza before. There’s a sixty minute window, which could be tough for you to do especially if you encounter timefall. And then your eyes skim over the recipient: Peter Englert.

Your breath leaves you in a hiss and you clutch at the edges of the terminal. This can’t be right. This can’t be _possible. _ Could it really be the same guy? There’s a cold, iron certainty within you that it is. The balls on the guy to put himself out there like this—these orders are made privy to every porter and Bridges employee that care to check. But—if the explosion _had _been an accident, he’s got nothing to hide, right? You’re torn between curiosity and fear. Fear wins out, and you page back to the main order menu.

When you leave the center twenty minutes later you’re laden with three boxes of chemicals meant for the craftsman. The sky is clear, not a storm in sight. Tucking your hands beneath your pack straps you make your way out of Lake Knot, sticking to the side of the road to avoid being an obstacle to any vehicles that might happen by. You pause just outside the city limits, checking your map. Though you lack the sophisticated cuff links that all who work for or with Bridges have, you’ve got a wrist device that’s similar, capable of giving you a digital map and compass. It’s this map you check now, plotting a route from where you stand to the craftsman’s bunker to the southwest. You pause before closing the map, however, because you realize that Peter Englert’s shelter is not all that far from your destination. It’s just a bit north.

Again you are torn between curiosity and fear. This time curiosity wins out. When you start walking again, your destination is almost due east.

**.x.**

You find Peter Englert’s shelter out in the middle of a dusty, rocky plain. The landscape is subdued—it’s just shades of brown on black out here. You stop well outside the ring of sensors encircling the shelter. The moment you cross over your identity will be confirmed and you don’t need him knowing you ventured here. In truth, you’re not sure _why_ you felt compelled to come all this way or why, right now, you feel compelled to draw closer, to interact with the terminal, to confront Peter face to face. Apprehension is needling you the same way it needled you after the explosion and the days that followed. Whatever the truth behind what happened at the Waystation, instinct is warning you that Peter Englert is bad news. Even so, it’s long minutes before you turn, orient yourself to the south, and walk away. There’s an unwelcome prickling sensation between your shoulder blades as you leave the shelter behind, and you feel a twinge of pain at the nape of your neck, the same pain you get when faced with the prospect of BTs. Your body doesn’t handle stress well. Eventually it fades and then you’re able to center your thoughts around other things, mainly your guilt and shame from not turning yourself over to the authorities. You wrestle with both, wrestle too with your reasoning behind that particular decision, and by the time you reach the craftsman’s shelter you have it all (mostly) suppressed again.

This is how you spend the next two days, taking cargo from the craftsman to the engineer, from the engineer to the elder, and from the elder to the Distro Center. You spend the night at the Center, indulging in a shower, a hot meal, and the laundry service. Come dawn the next day you’re ready to go with an order of resin meant for the weather station. You’ve never been to the weather station before and it will be the farthest east you’ve ever gone. For the time being, your eagerness for exploring new territory trumps your guilt and you’re almost in a good mood as you depart from the Center. You’re packing a lot today; resin isn’t light and you’d also stocked up on the exploration essentials: ladders, climbing anchors, and two P.C.C.s. Subsequently the going is slow. With the expansion of the chiral network has come certain perks, including rebuilt highways. As a result you’re able to travel for a couple hours with relative (slow) ease on the blacktop. In all that time you see two vehicles, a trike bearing a fellow porter who salutes you as he speeds by and a Bridges truck that considerately pulls over to the opposite shoulder to give you wide berth. After this weather station gig you’re going to look into fabricating a vehicle of your own.

The highway ends abruptly, spilling out onto dirt. Apparently this is as far as the repaving effort has gotten. The next time you’re on your way through here you’ll donate what little you have in resources toward the shared goal. Looks like it’s back to hoofing it through uneven terrain and it _is _uneven here because on the other side of the river to the right the ground rises and falls with what you think are called basalt columns. An intrepid porter has provided a solution to the immediate problem the river presents with a well-placed ladder, which you carefully step your way across. On the other side you look up, to the southeast where you can see the enormous dish of the weather station rising from the top of a cliff. This is going to be a tough one. You take a deep breath, grip your pack straps, and start walking again.

The columns, you discover to your dismay, are almost maze-like in their formations, leading you more than once to dead ends. Sometimes you’re able to climb up and over; more often than not you can’t and have to retrace your steps. By the time you clear the columns the sun is nearing its zenith and you’re now treading over stony ground patched here and there with tufts of grass. It’s a gradual incline leading up to the cliff, which you’re not really looking forward to climbing. You’re still a fair distance away but a quick scan with your odradek reveals ladders and ropes left behind by others but not arranged in any cohesive manner. You’ll be able to use them to supplement your own way, but you’ll still have to plan out a route. Sighing, you continue on.

The sky gradually darkens. You increase your pace. Low rumbles of thunder become audible and the wind picks up and grimly you lift your hands to pull up your hood. Rain begins to fall almost immediately after, scattered drops at first. You hold up hope that maybe it’s just this, just a shower, but several minutes later it starts to pour in earnest. Lightning splits the sky, followed by a clap of thunder so loud the earth shakes. Still you continue on—another ten minutes, maybe, and you’ll be at the cliff. There may be an overhang you can shelter under there. If not, you can construct your own shelter. You can do this. You can get there.

You’ve been keeping your head down for the most part, looking up only to spot obstacles, and so it is you see the dead crab, lying on its back with its white underbelly turned to the sky. You make a sound that’s very much like whimper and then you spy something worse: small seedlings sprouting up from the earth only to rapidly wither and die under the onslaught of timefall. Your breath begins to fog the air and suddenly it is cold, too cold, an unearthly chill unlike any other that skitters its way over you until you feel it seizing at your heart. You drop to a crouch immediately, bracing yourself with a hand on the ground when the movement sends your cargo tipping to one side. Swallowing hard, you slowly crane your head back just a little to get a better glimpse of the sky. Your worst fears are realized: descending to earth along with timefall are those eerily ephemeral black tendrils.

Pain rockets up the back of your neck, blossoming outward along the back of your skull. You’re breathing in short, panicked little gasps, each breath rising as steam. You can’t _see _ them because as useful as your odradek is, it can’t pinpoint BTs without a connection to a bridge baby. They’re here, though, and all around you and you can’t _move_, not until the rain stops. And even if you don’t move, even if you remain silent, they may still detect you. You are the purest form of helpless, crouching and terrified in the very literal midst of death. Minutes tick by. You’re hyperaware of every motion your body makes, of the way your fingers in the mud flex of their own volition, of the way your chest rises and falls even though you’re struggling to keep your breathing shallow and quiet. You’re acutely aware too of the weight of your cargo and the way it’s straining the muscles in your back and shoulders because of your awkward positioning. Slowly, so slowly, you shift until you’ve got one knee on the ground, allowing you to lean forward in an attempt to ease your discomfort. Rain drips off you to spatter against the ground beneath.

Existence narrows. There is only you and the timefall, you and the BTs, you and your numerous exposed vulnerabilities. You keep your head down because you’re afraid to look around, because there’s no point in even trying. You can’t see what abominations hover so insidiously nearby. You measure the passage of time through the water that drips off the top of your hood.

“Well, this looks like a predicament.”

Your head jerks around and you barely manage to swallow a startled gasp. The voice is dampened by the rain but you recognize the speaker all the same and he’s standing several feet off to your right. He seems entirely unaffected by the timefall and its spectral denizens, enough so that he dares to take a step toward you. You open your mouth to voice a warning but remember that you can’t so instead you shake your head frantically. He halts. You can’t see his eyes for his hood, but you can see his mouth. He’s smiling.

“Standard procedure, huh?”

You stare at him, flummoxed by his appearance, his attitude, his impunity when surrounded by things that have the power to render all life null and void. A moment later you realize he’s referring back to your first conversation beneath that timefall shelter. You can do nothing but observe as he draws nearer, making no effort at all to muffle the sounds of his movement. Each footstep he takes across the inundated ground sounds amplified and you are biting the inside of your lip to keep from beseeching him to be quiet. He drops into a crouch in front of you; you have to rear back a little to be able to see him clearly.

He ducks his head closer and whispers, “How’s standard procedure working out for you?”

You feel your expression contort; fear, anger, and utter confusion are all vying for control of your facial features. There are so many things you want to say but you can’t, because your breath is still fogging the air and there are still plants growing and dying at your feet. So you simply watch him, wide-eyed and mute and waiting for _something, _something inexplicable that lurks within his next words or actions, something you are absolutely certain you don’t want to experience.

“Here, let me show you something.” He reaches for your hand, the one not splayed in the mud supporting your weight. You snatch it away and he gives you a mildly reproving look before reaching for it again. You can’t fight him off; to do so would make too much noise. Once he’s got you by the wrist he starts tugging at your glove and once it’s off he tucks in behind his BB pod. Still holding you, he lifts his free hand and pulls his own glove off with his teeth. You’re breathing rapidly, straining as much as you dare against his grasp. Exposed skin and timefall do not mix and even if you're somewhat resistant to its effects, it only takes minutes for the damage to be done. He is seemingly unconcerned with that on his end, and once his glove is secured in the same place as yours he transfers his grip, his bare hand closing over yours. His touch is very warm. The shock of skin on skin contact, something you’ve not experienced for a very long time, elicits a muffled gasp from you.

“Now,” he says in an almost whisper, “look around.”

Your brow furrows and you mouth _what the fuck? _His smile flickers in and out of existence and he lifts the hand not holding yours and flutters it, a nudge for you to do as you’ve been told. So you do, tearing your eyes from his face, turning your head to look. At first you see nothing but rain and rocks and grass but then… but then—

—you can _see _them.

They are just as terrifying as you’d always imagined, as you’d heard. They are shifting, rippling spectres that drift as though caught on an errant breeze, fully humanoid in shape but also something so much more horrifying. Attached to each and every one of them are the cords, the things that anchor them to this world and the other, twisting, waving lines that fill the air like some kind of eldritch web. You can _see _ the BTs. And they are _everywhere. _

You are breathing very fast now. You are surrounded by them. There’s no place you can move, not one inch in any direction, where you will be safe. You are trapped here until they vanish—you are trapped here with _him_, he who may or may not be a terrorist, he who is most certainly a threat to you in some capacity. The pain in the back of your head intensifies as though someone’s applied a live wire there and it spreads, piercing the spot behind your left eye. You _do _make a sound now as your head drops, uttering a soft whimper you are unable to suppress. You jerk your hand free of his and press it against your left eye to try and alleviate the pressure you feel.

“Well now,” he says softly, “this won’t do.”

You can’t raise your head to look at him. The pain won’t let you. All you can do is hunch over, completely at the whim of whatever it is that feels like a spike is being driven into the back of your head and out the other side. Subsequently when you feel his hand snake into the confines of your hood and feel his bare palm press against your nape, you don’t react except to become completely still. His fingers brush the sides of your neck and he squeezes gently; immediately the agony subsides. Letting your hand fall from your face look at him in astonishment.

“Better?” he mouths.

You nod.

He rocks back on his heels. He looks around the area and you do the same only to find that bereft of his touch you can no longer see the BTs. You have questions, so very many of them and they are filling your mouth but you don’t dare speak, not yet. He returns his gaze to you, reads your burning curiosity as it etches itself into the lines of your face, and presses one of his gloved fingers against his mouth. He stands, holding out his hand to you. After a very long moment of hesitation, you reach up and take it. He pulls you to your feet. The harnesses holding your cargo in place creak with the movement and your eyes flick around wildly to see if the noise attracted attention. You can see them again, the faceless hovering haunts, and relief floods through you as you realize those closest aren’t coming nearer.

Peter tugs at your hand. You resist initially, because walking through this otherworldly minefield is the absolute last thing you want to do. Peter’s gaze upon you is steady, expression unreadable, and you close your eyes to try and muster any kind of resolve because you _are _ going to follow him. When he tugs again you acquiesce, letting him lead you along at a creeping, cautious pace. You keep your eyes fixed on the back of his hooded head but you can still see _them_ from the periphery of your vision and to your horror, you can also hear them. You’ve never been close to them before, had no idea they made noises, awful hissing moans that make the hair on your arms stand on end. Your heart is thumping so powerfully that you can feel your pulse in your clenched teeth.

You let him lead you, making an effort to step where he steps, trying to focus only on him because the rest of the world is just too much. This continues for what seems like hours, until the rain stops, until there are no longer tiny dead fish and crabs littering the ground, until the plants stop sprouting. It’s only then he releases your hand and once he does, you immediately hit your knees. All the panic and dread you’ve known in the last however long demands a release and you double over, each of your breaths a shallow, rasping exhale. The hurt returns, a throbbing knot at the base of your skull. You probe at it tenderly with your fingers.

“More pain?”

Hearing his voice at normal volume startles you after the strange, tense quiet you just had to adhere to. It takes you a while to find your voice and once you do, it’s reluctant to function the way it should. Your words come out thready. “It’s from the stress.”

“Don’t think so.” You look at him in confusion. He gives you a shrug that would be sympathetic if you weren’t so sure it wasn’t. “It’s DOOMS.”

“That’s not—”

“Possible? ‘Fraid it is.”

“…_how?”_

Another shrug. “It just happens. You’re not too far along, I’d guess. Level one, if that. The pain is your body’s reaction to their presence.”

“You,” you say, pausing to swallow because your mouth is drier than dry, another unwelcome aftereffect of your terror. “You have DOOMS.”

“Guilty.”

“What level?”

He tilts his head, smiles. “I’m off the charts.”

His expression disturbs you and you look away, trying to marshal the strength to get back to your feet. You can’t. Whatever adrenaline you’d had has deserted you completely. Every limb feels shaky and weak so you give up on your lofty ambition of standing and instead slide your pack straps off. Your cargo topples onto its side with a thud. You let it, slumping into a sitting position. Now that you’re clear of the BTs, you’re free to focus on the other substantial, very real threat that’s chosen to confront you today.

You get right to it. “You gave me a bomb.”

“Did I?”

“The Waystation blew right after I delivered your package.”

“Hmm.” He scuffs at the ground with his foot, pushing rocks out of the way before sitting down facing you. “Official word is that it was a damaged fuel cell.”

Your voice is suddenly strident. You’ve had quite enough bullshit for one day. “What was in that package?”

He leans forward and he’s so close that it puts his face just an inch from yours. You jerk away. “What do you think was in it?”

“A bomb.”

One corner of his mouth quirks up. “Now why would I do something like that?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you’re sure I gave you a bomb.”

“_Something _caused that explosion!”

“Something did, yes. A damaged fuel cell.”

It’s the way he says it that has you recoiling just a little, that has you viewing him through widened eyes. “I told you,” he says in a manner that’s almost sing-song, “one of my very good friends lived there.”

You don’t miss the past tense in that particular statement. “What was in the package?” you ask again.

“Jewelry.”

You make a frustrated noise, rubbing furiously at the bridge of your nose. Your ire amuses him. You can hear it in his voice as he elaborates. “Jewelery for my very good friend… and maaaaybe a frequency scrambler.”

Your eyes snap back to his face. He asks, “Didn’t you wonder why they never came for you?”

For what feels like the nth time today, your breathing quickens. “You _were_ responsible.”

He gives a little _aw shucks _shrug. “I was. Just not in the way you think.”

“_Why?”_

“Why not?” he demands back.

“People are _dead—”_

“People die every day. People will keep on dying. I’m just… helping them along. I’m nice like that.”

“_Fuck,”_ you mutter, burying your face in your hands. So now you know—you _are _complicit in what happened.

“Now, I think maybe I deserve a thank you. They’ll never know it was you that helped me out.”

He’s out of his fucking mind and you tell him as much. He gives you the flash of a brittle smile in response. “So I’ve been told. But we are who we are, aren’t we, _Boots?”_

_What the fuck._ “How-?"

“You gave me all the information I needed. All I had to do was visit Sentencer HQ and ask about the lady with the pretty purple laces. Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t say anything untoward. I just mentioned I’d met you on the road and you’d kindly helped me out. They weren’t surprised. Seems like that’s the kind of thing you do.”

“Why did you go there?”

“To learn more about you, of course.”

You’re getting tired of asking the same question. “Why?”

“I always like to know the people I’m working with.”

“We’re not—there’s no fucking way—” You stop, blow out a heated breath, and finally spit it out the remainder. “We’re _not _working together.”

“I’m afraid we are, Boots.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“You’d rather I call you _____?”

He’s got you there, because you ‘d really rather he doesn’t call you either. When you don’t say anything he goes on conversationally, “Me, I prefer Boots. It’s a good and humble name, evokes a kind of salt of the earth impression. Makes you sound reliable, straightforward. Trustworthy.” He picks up a rock, palms it, and tosses it into the air. You’re unable to tear your gaze from his, suspended in dread anticipation. “And me, I need people I can trust. And I can trust you, can’t I?”

You don’t like the way he’s wielding his words, maneuvering you into a corner so that your first instinct is to voice an affirmative. It doesn’t take a great deal of insight to know that trust should play no part in your interactions with this man. You shake your head.

“No? Well, that’s a shame.” He lets the rock fall and moves, transitioning to one knee, getting up in your personal space again. You lean back so far that you have to brace yourself on your hands to keep your balance. His blue eyes are narrowed as they skim your face before locking on your own with such intensity that it’s a very real struggle for you not to get to your feet and bolt. “But I think maybe it would be in your best interests if I could.”

He doesn’t back off and you can’t retreat and so you stare at him, wide-eyed, feeling the weight of his threat in your very bones. Finally he relents, pulling away. It’s a long span of seconds before you sit up straight again. Your next words scrape over a knot in your throat.

“Who _are_ you?”

“Peter Englert. We’ve been through this once already.” He leans back on his arms, crooking an eyebrow. “You looked me up. Came to my house. I’m a little disappointed you came all that way and neglected to bring pizza.”

How can he possibly know that? “I didn’t step inside the sensor ring.”

“Something you should know about me, Boots, is that I’m _always _watching.”

There’s a very different kind of pain building in your head now, a steady thrum at your temples. A good ol’ regular headache and given what you’ve just learned about the other kind, you’re kind of relieved to be feeling it right now. Kind of. He watches as you lift a hand, as you rub at the spot on the side of your head where the ache is centered. You voice an inquiry to which you’re certain there’s an answer. “Who are you really?”

He makes a show of deliberating, running his tongue along his top teeth. He sits up, holds both hands out to the side. “Higgs.”

_Higgs._ Higgs Monaghan. Leader of the Homo Demens, a militant separatist group. One of those names you’d never thought you’d be able to associate with a face, one of the world’s larger evils around which gossip and speculation perpetually orbit. An entity, to be sure, but a non-entity to you because you’ve been living the kind of life where a man like him should have never become a feature.

You’ve always had an expressive face and your thoughts are parading across them now in quick succession. He interprets them all, says with a crooked smile, “So you’ve heard of me.”

The tumult of the last couple hours is taking its toll. You feel nauseated, can taste bile in the back of your throat. If this headache keeps on keeping on, if you keep hearing things you don’t want to hear, you’re probably going to vomit. You close your eyes, touch your hand to your face again and it feels cold, clammy. There’s really only one thing left to ask. “What do you want?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. When you open your eyes again he’s holding something within his closed fist. “I got you something. Consider it a gift for helping me out.”

He moves suddenly, grabbing your left leg, pulling it so that it’s outstretched. You kick at him and he retaliates by twisting your limb until you feel it in your knee, excruciating torsion that has you crying out. It has the intended effect of taking the fight right out of you.

“You gonna play nice?” he asks. He’s still holding your leg, one hand on the back of your calf, the other at your ankle. You’re glaring at him, but after a moment you nod because you really can’t see that you have any other option.

“Good.” He repositions your leg so that it’s laid out again and then begins untying your boots. You’re so taken aback that all you can do is watch. He’s going to take them off, you think, but are surprised again when he starts pulling the laces free.

“What are you doing?”

“I told you, I got you a gift.” He yanks the lace free and tosses it aside and then holds out his hand. Lying in his palm are different laces, bright purple banded with red. He selects one and lets it dangle before your face before he starts threading it through your boot’s eyelets. “Same shade purple. See that red in there? Yeah. Just like your strand, except,” and here he pauses to look you in the eye and smile, “that’s my blood.”

It seems you’ve hit your threshold for weird, unusual and scary shit, because you don’t say anything. You don’t move. You sit nice and docile where you are and let him finish lacing your boot. When it’s done and tied you obediently stretch out your other leg, which earns you a nod of approval.

“There now,” he says when his task is completed. “This’ll help you out.”

You eye the laces dubiously. “I don’t see how.”

“Let’s just say they’ll give you a softer step when it counts.” Cryptic, to be sure, but you doubt you’ll get a more definitive answer. You’ve got no intention of keeping the laces, a thought which also apparently registers on your face because he adds, “Don’t go thinking you can just get rid of these, though. They’re a gift. There may be consequences if you lose them.”

Great. More threats. You draw your knees up in preparation to stand; he waylays you by gripping you by the wrist. His other hand lifts, knocks your hood off your head and suddenly he is _right there,_ his visage filling your view. He’s smiling again, a smile that on anyone else would be incredibly charming, a smile that emphasizes creases of amusement and creates brackets around his black-lined eyes. You could get lost in the expression and not in a good way because there’s a hint of mania in the depths of that blue gaze, something disturbingly compelling that you’re certain you could never fully fathom.

“You and I, Boots, we’re intertwined now. Irrevocably. You did me a favor out of the kindness of your blessed little heart and I’m going to do you one in kind. Things for you are about to take a turn. You’re going to experience things of a wonder you never knew existed and I promise it’s a journey that will change you. It started here today but you’re not quite ready for the next step. Soon, though, and I’ll come for you when it’s time.”

His face is so close to yours now that you can feel his breath on your face. “Don’t bother trying something stupid like going to ground or finding a place outside my reach. I told you before I’m a resourceful man. Trust me when I say you don’t want to know the extent of those resources—at least not yet.”

He stands. A breath you didn’t know you’d been holding escapes from between your teeth and it trembles as it does so. Peter—_Higgs_—takes a step back. “Weather should be clear now for the rest of the day. Plenty of time for you to scale that cliff over there and make your delivery. You’ve got your reputation to uphold, after all: reliable. Trustworthy.” He pauses, adding as though in afterthought, “Just what I need.”

Another step backward and he pulls your glove out from behind his BB pod, tossing it to you. You manage to catch it without taking your eyes off of him. He puts his own glove on, one finger at a time, and when he’s done he gives you a little wave, flapping his fingers. And then he’s gone, vanished from the spot, floating black particles indicating where he’d just stood before they too vanish. You look at the glove in your hand, look down at the laces in your boots, and suddenly it feels like the ground beneath you has given away and you’re plummeting. Everything catches up with you at once and you roll over onto all fours, convulsively emptying the contents of your stomach. It takes a long time. When there’s nothing left but bile you push yourself back onto your knees, wiping shakily at your mouth with the back of your hand. Your cargo sits off to one side in a toppled heap but you can’t muster the energy to get to your feet and shoulder it again. Instead you sit, pulling your knees up and hanging your head between them, wondering just what the fuck you’re supposed to do now.

**.x.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read this, I appreciate it!


	3. Retreat, regroup, regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**WARNING:** (This applies to this chapter and the rest of the story onward): There's a bit of violence in this chapter. I'm determined to keep Higgs in character as much as I'm capable. He's not a nice guy. He will not become a sappy sweetheart. This isn't really going to be a happy relationship._

Twenty-six days have passed. You’ve gone to ground, retreating to your least favorite place on all this ravaged earth. To the west of Mountain Knot, in a vast swath of boreal forest bordered by swampland, is the shelter you spent most of your life in. It’s still in good shape and has enough space to house several people (which it did) but is a considerable slog from both Mountain Knot and its distribution center. It’s always a place you swore you’d never come back to, but current events being what they are...

Your journey from the weather station had been a fleet one, fueled by types of fear you’d never thought possible. Skirting around MULE camps had caused considerable delays but even then you’d reached the distribution center north of Mountain Knot in record time. You’d stopped there, not even daring to stay the night, cashing in most of the pay you’d had in reserve for supplies. Taking your claim of the center’s resources you’d fabricated two floating carriers and restocked on all the essentials you’d need for a long time spent away. It took another two days of hard journeying to reach the shelter. Heavily laden with food and clothing and other essentials, towing two full carriers behind you, you’d stood just outside the perimeter of currently inactive sensor poles and looked upon the entrance with a deep sense of unease. This was home but conversely, this was never home. It’s a dichotomy you didn’t have the luxury of time to work through. With a sigh, you’d headed for the door. 

Reconnecting the shelter to the power grid was easier than you’d hoped and once the lights came on you looked around at the dark walls and the dark floor and the dark atmosphere it all exuded and felt a crushing weight settle over you. Even devoid of any other living being the memories of this place persisted. Resolutely you’d squared your shoulders and set about trying to make this place a different kind of domicile. You’d succeeded, kind of. You’d rearranged the furniture, spartan as it was, and even carted some pieces outside behind the shelter to age away beneath the timefall. Now, three weeks later, you can walk around the shelter’s confines without falling victim to recollections most of the time. Your demons aren’t all exorcised, but they have been largely banished. You still hate being here, though. You resent it, resent Higgs for instilling in you such fear that you’ve been forced to return here. You spend a great deal of time outside the shelter when weather permits, wandering the forest and venturing into the swamp. You haven’t returned to work and you won’t, not for a while, not until you have to. You’ve taken great pains to avoid being followed here; the boots with the purple and red laces you left in a private locker in the distribution center to the northeast. You’ve skirted Higgs’ explicit warnings – you haven’t thrown away the boots or lost them. You know exactly where they are. 

You venture out to twice to Mountain Knot. The chiral network hasn’t extended this far north yet, a fact you think and hope will play in your favor because it means that when you cross into the sensor circle your identity is only logged locally. You can do the Mountain Knot trek in a day, provided the weather holds. At the Knot you procure provisions as quickly as possible, fighting against the urge to check the terminals for orders, talking yourself out of just doing small jobs. In all honesty you find life in hiding tedious to the point that it’s almost painful. The alternative, however – encountering Higgs again – is enough to keep your particular version of wanderlust at bay. For now. 

You try to do a number of things to assuage your boredom. You read. You sketch. You plunk out plain, earthy tunes on an old banjo that had once belonged to your mother. You rearrange the furniture several times over. You dig through the storage closet for anything you may have missed when you left two years ago, shuttering this place up and leaving with the full intention of never returning. You find your father’s hunting gear. Not much remains because you’d sold the bulk of it but you’re able to find his old spear point knife, sheathed and sharp with no sign of rust. You take it, not because you think it will avail you in any way should – _when _– Higgs appears again, but because it has the ludicrous effect of making you feel safer.

Another ten days pass. You hate living below ground. You’ve always hated it, but you hate it more now. You feel cut off from some vital, inexplicable part of yourself that you never knew existed for most of your life. Subsequently when it’s time to make another supply run to Mountain Knot you’re eager – nay, almost excited – to set out. The snow starts after the halfway point. You lift your eyes skyward, searching for the inverted rainbow, for the black strands. All you see are clouds, thin and transient, letting you know this is just a flurry. Still, by the time you see the roof of the Knot’s distro center looming in the distance visibility is low and the wind has become biting. You tuck your head down firmly into your coat’s collar, snugging up your scarf as you do so. You keep your eyes downcast, trudging the familiar trail toward the Knot. You don’t realize you’ve breached the sensor ring until you hear the automated voice say, “Beginning scan. Scanning ID. Verifying ID. Clear. Welcome, _____ _____.”

_Bridges._

You halt, your head jerking up and sure as shit there it is, the UCA logo in a blue chiralgram above the distro center’s entrance. The chiral network has finally reached Mountain Knot and you, stupid and foolhardy you, have just crossed unthinking into the sensor ring. Your location is now available to anyone and everyone on the chiral network. You back away steadily, not stopping until you’re several feet from the nearest sensor pole. Your eyes dart around the area and it’s empty, though there’s a Bridges truck parked off to one side. You war with yourself briefly – do you risk going for the supplies? You need them, yes, but you can exist another week or more on what you already have by rationing. But after that, what then? Your body’s already made your mind up for you, because it’s turned itself around. With a much quicker pace than what you’d had initially, you walk back into the snow, back toward home.

**.x.**

Growing up, your room in the shelter was the smallest of the three. You haven’t set foot in it for two years and that won’t be changing anytime soon. It’s easy to pretend the door to it isn’t there, which you do on a daily basis now. You’d claimed the largest room upon your return and all it held was a double bed anchored to the wall, a bookshelf, and an antique writing desk your mother had inherited before you were born. Your belongings, an admittedly meager assortment, are spread out across the desk or stacked/folded neatly on the floor. Upon your hasty return from Mountain Knot you retreat to the room, crawl into bed, and stare at the wall for an extended period of time. You think of Higgs, of what he could possibly need you for, of the threats he’d given you, veiled and non. You are pretty sure that you’re fucked. You’ve spent countless hours trying to locate a way out of this mess and the only two you think may work end up with either you or Higgs dead. The former is not ideal and the latter likely impossible so yeah… you’re fucked.

You haven’t cried for a very long time. You come damn close tonight.

**.x.**

You last two entire days before you break. Walls are walls no matter where you go, but these walls are worse than others. You’re not by any means an outdoor survival expert but you are definitely more yourself without man-made structures than within. You open the door to the shelter fully expecting to find the ground blanketed with snow and are relieved to see that what snow did fall has already melted. The first breath of air outside the confines of the shelter is invigorating. It smells of trees and earth and wild cranberries and carries the bracing promise of colder weather. Winter is a sobering aspect for numerous reasons but it won’t be the first time you’ve endured it solo. You’re capable of a great many things. It just took you a long time to figure that out.

You’re four steps out of the shelter when you hear a sound like someone clearing their throat. You halt, barely daring to breathe as your eyes dart around in search of what you expect, of what you fear. But there’s nothing, only the trees surrounding the entry and the gentle murmur of the wind as it rustles the leaves that have yet to fall. Still, there’s a charge in the air that has goosebumps rising on your arms and so you step backward once, then twice, trying to convince yourself that you’re being stupid.

“You’re a hard woman to find.”

The voice comes from behind you and you whip around but there’s nothing between you and the few feet separating you from the door. You’re not stupid, but god you’re _so _ stupid because that was Higgs’ voice, Higgs’ words. You’d kept the sensor poles deactivated upon your return because you wanted the place to look abandoned and you’re wishing you hadn’t now, but then again, you can’t _see _ him anywhere as you turn on the spot, scarcely daring to breathe. The sensor poles wouldn’t have made a difference. He _is _here, though. You can feel it, that same charge in the air that now has you tasting something like ozone on the back of your tongue. The door is so close. If you can make it you can bar it and then you’re what? Trapped? No better off than you are now? Still, you’re edging backward toward the door, straining your eyes to find him even though there’s nothing there.

“I thought I told you not to go and do something stupid.”

Three steps. You’re three steps from the door and you make a break for it, whipping around with the full intent of diving to your destination. He’s there somehow, standing splay-legged in front of the door and even though you try to stop your momentum carries you into him. His hands are on your shoulders and you react violently, attempting to rip free, attempting to shove him back. The resulting tussle is short-lived and futile and ends abruptly with you flat on your ass looking up at him.

“Stay down,” he commands you. Fuck that. You scuttle backward as he crouches. One of his hands snaps out and fastens around your ankle and you become motionless. You still carry the recollection of what pain he’s capable of causing. You can’t see his eyes beneath the hanging edge of his hood, but you can _feel_ them with almost the same intensity you’d feel a dagger needling you.

“This arrangement we’ve got ain’t gonna work if you misbehave, Boots.”

To your surprise, your voice comes out mostly even. “We don’t have an arrangement.”

“We do,” he counters, rapidly tilting his head from side to side. “We really do.”

“I didn’t agree to _any _of this!”

“You didn’t have to. You accepted my package and you delivered it. That was all you needed to do.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind!”

He doesn’t like being yelled at; his fingers around your ankle tighten in warning. “Language,” he chides, and as your expression contorts his grin flickers in and out of existence. “Back to the business at hand.”

“We don’t have—”

“I need you,” he continues with an increase in volume, “to deliver something for me.”

“Another bomb?”

“Nothing quite so dramatic this time.” He sounds disappointed as he says this.

You’re shaking your head violently. “There’s no fucking way.”

“Oh, I think there is.” He lets go of your ankle and you instantly scoot back, getting to your feet in a rush. “I told you, Boots, you and I, we’re intertwined. I hold your fate in your palm of my itty bitty hand. All I need to do is anonymously mention your name to the appropriate authorities and you’ll be kissing your sweet freedom goodbye.”

“I’d tell them about you.”

“I’m sure you would. And they’d probably be really interested to hear it. But you’re forgetting that I—”

He vanishes abruptly with a crackling noise, reappearing to your immediate right, prompting a mangled, startled sound to escape your mouth. “—can do this,” he finishes. His smug expression is entirely warranted.

You back away, angling toward the door, needing space to breathe. “Why can’t you deliver whatever it is? You’re clearly capable of traversing long distances easier and faster than I can.”

“Because I’ve got places to go, people to fuck with, you know…” he smirks, shrugging, “the usual.”

If you weren’t so busy being scared of Higgs, you’d be incensed. No, you _are _incensed. Fury and fear do not a great mixture make and they are taking a toll on you because you notice as you clench your hands into fists that they are trembling. You square your jaw, swallowing hard. “I won’t do it.”

He scrunches up his face in a parody of sympathetic empathy. “You will.”

“Fuck off!” you shout, rage winning out momentarily because he somehow manages to be as irritating as he is alarming.

He laughs and it’s a genuine laugh, one that would be infectious if not for the circumstances. It makes you even angrier. His laughter dies into chuckles and he shakes his head. “Boots, you don’t seem to be getting it. You have _no choice.”_

“You just told me I did,” you remind him, probably unwisely. “You said if I didn’t do it you’d turn me in.”

He considers you for a long span of seconds and his countenance is suddenly and disturbingly blank. “I’ve had a change of heart,” he says eventually. “You’ll deliver it or I’ll feed you to the BTs.”

He means it. Of this you are indisputably certain. Dread ices your heart and unravels throughout the rest of you. He’s shown you his merciful side and it is as fickle and frightening as the rest of him. Your mouth is dry and you have to swallow twice before you can conjure up enough volume to ensure he can hear you. “What is it?”

“Not a bomb,” he replies breezily. You scowl. He smiles. “It’s a gift.”

“For a very good friend?” You scoff.

“Well…” He rolls his shoulders in a shrug, pacing off to one side. You turn on the spot to keep him in your eyeline. “I wouldn’t say a very good friend. _She _would say we’re enemies but me, I just have a hard time letting go.

“Will it hurt anybody?”

“Physically? No. Emotionally? Hopefully.”

You’re staring at him with such rancor that he should be melting into the ground. He turns his head to look at you straight on, cruel mirth tugging one corner of his mouth upward. “So what do you think, Boots?”

“… I don’t have any choice.”

“You sure don’t.” he cheerfully agrees. He continues his aimless walking, hands clasped behind his back, looping between the sensor poles. You suck in a deep breath and make what is likely going to be one of the stupidest decisions you’ve ever made, yet another to add to your list. You whirl around and bolt for the door.

“Boots!”

You’ve got the latch in your hands and you’re thinking _just push, just get inside _and for one maliciously fleeting moment you think you’ve made it but then you hear that crackling noise and he’s slamming you against the unopened door. He keeps you pinned there, his chest to your back, his breath ruffling the hair at the nape of your neck. You make an attempt to push back but he hardly budges and by the time you relent you’re nearly panting.

“You’re a lot feistier than I first thought,” he tells you in a low voice that causes prickles of unease to dance their way down your back. Your cheek is pressed against the door and you can’t turn your head enough to look at him. You can _sense _him, though, sense that he’s moving. He inhales deeply. He’s _scenting _you. “Hmm. Fresh. Clean.”

“Get the fuck off me!”

“Not yet. Not until I know you’re gonna behave.” His mouth is suddenly very near your ear and it resonates. “So how about it, Boots?”

You brace your hands against the door one final time and push. It’s like hes anchored to the ground and you give up with a guttural curse. “Fine.”

“Louder.”

“_Fucking fine!”_

He’s laughing as he draws away. You turn around slowly, face aflame from a combination of humiliation and helpless rage. He gestures to the door behind you. “Let’s get you ready to go.” Your confusion is apparent and he responds to it. “Oh, you’ll need to walk quite a ways to get my parcel. I’ll be walking with you.”

This nightmare keeps getting worse. “Why?”

“Why not?” As you glare at him he smiles, a full, elfin smile that’s so fucking disconcerting considering the things he’s just threatened to do to you. He points to the door behind you and, grinding your teeth so hard you’re pretty sure it’s audible, you do as directed.

**.x.**

“Quaint.”

That’s all Higgs says as he stands in what was once the living room of the shelter. You use it for functionality over recreation, your only concession your “reading nook”: an ugly armchair in the corner next to the only remaining table, which is more of a plant stand, really. You’re a reader, of the voracious nature when life allows for it. Even when running delivery routes you’re able to find time to read, but during your time here you haven’t really had much else to do. When you’d purged this place before leaving it, the books were one of the very few thing that survived the culling. They vary greatly in genre and subsequently so do your tastes.

You ignore Higgs, making your way to the room where you sleep. He follows, poking his head inside to glance around at the bed, at the small pile of folded clothing, at your porter overalls and harnesses hanging from a hook on the wall. His brows shoot up as his eyes skim over your meager excuse for an arsenal laid out on the floor, which amounts to a bola gun and your father’s knife. He backs away, smiling, as you shut the door in his face. You get changed slowly, apprehension weighing your movements, donning your porter trappings methodically. You’re strapping the knife to your belt when Higgs raps with mock politeness on the door.

“Hurry it up.”

“Fuck off,” you mutter, but hasten anyway.

He’s looking at the stack of books piled in the dozens along the wall when you leave the room. You move around with robotic efficiency, procuring what else you’ll need in terms of food and water and first-aid, shoving them into your pack and the other assorted appropriate pouches. You swipe a book off the pile closest to you and shove it away too before looking at Higgs expectantly. He takes his time wrapping up his literary perusal, paging through the book he’s holding with an air of casual disregard.

“You told me to hurry,” you needlessly remind him.

“I did,” he says, finally snapping the book shut. He tosses it to the floor and pivots on the spot, sweeping the place with his gaze.

When he turns back he studies you speculatively. “Not a lot of happy moments in here, were there?”

Your eyes widen and you blurt out words before you catch yourself. “How do you—?”

“I can sense these things,” he says after another few moments of scrutinizing you with an unreadable expression. You fear questions, but for once in regard to him your fears are unfounded. He begins to move and crosses the room, preceding you through the entry and out the front door. You close the door and lock it through the synced controls on your cuff and then turn to face him.

“So, where is it?” When he arches an eyebrow you snap, “The package?”

“Oh, that.” He is grating on every nerve you have and it must show, because he grins fit to split his face. “It’s at the distribution center.” A pause. “The same place you left your boots.”

You really wish you could find the off switch for your emotions because you’re really fucking tired of Higgs being able to read them as they march across your face. His smile becomes even more obnoxious. “You thought I wouldn’t know? I warned you. And I've got to say I’m a little hurt. Those laces were designed to protect you.”

“I don’t need your protection.”

“You do,” he corrects immediately, “which you’re going to realize in short order.”

That sounds like a threat and you tell him so. “Just an insight I’m sharing out of concern for you,” he replies. “Come on. We should be able to make it in two days.”

“You’re really coming with me?”

“I am.”

“You said you had places to go.”

“And I do. But as you’ve seen, I don’t subscribe to conventional methods of travel. Besides, I like your company.”

You make a strangled noise of angry disbelief. He half-turns and from beneath the folds of his hood you can see he’s smiling again. “Let’s go.”

**.x.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like this is going to be a slow burn. Apologies to those of you who prefer otherwise. As always, thank you very much for reading.


	4. Unexpected sojourn

You head out on this assignment the way you do every other: with determination. This time around you’re resolved to pretend that your companion isn’t really there, that you haven’t been blackmailed into doing his bidding, that you most assuredly be won’t blackmailed into doing more. It’s easier to do than you expected, mainly because Higgs keeps quiet for the first couple hours of your trek. He’d gestured for you to take the lead upon leaving the shelter and you had, striking a brisk pace with the full intent of getting to your destination as soon as possible in order to get rid of him. You know you’re laboring under false hope in this regard. He’s made it clear that there’s no getting rid of him until he decides it’s time and you have your doubts as to whether that time will ever come. He’s right—he’s got you tied together inextricably. As you walk you wrack your brain, trying fruitlessly to find a way out.

The first part of your route to the distribution center takes you through the forest, a miles-long gentle incline that you spend picking your way through underbrush and weaving a way between poplar and bam trees. It’s late into autumn and the forest floor is covered in the resulting detritus, making silent passage an impossibility. You’re not concerned. There’s not really any reason for stealth at this point. While timefall storms do happen in this area, it’s not with any frequency. You march onward with dubious, unwanted purpose while Higgs follows behind. 

Midday finds you on the fringes of the forest where it spills out into the valley. It’s all rivers and grassland here, which makes for easy traversing. The only real threats to be found in the valley are the terrorist camps to the northeast, which are easy enough to skirt around. As you cross into the grasslands proper you pause for a moment, turning an eye to the sky. Some clouds to the north but nothing substantial. Of course, timefall storms tend to build quickly and without much warning so who really knows what will happen a few hours from now?

Higgs steps up beside you and even though you pointedly keep your eyes fixed forward you can feel the weight of his stare. “Nothin’ but blue skies…” he croons quietly as you resume walking. 

Normally this is the part of the journey you would enjoy the most. The grasslands are beautiful, the valley surrounded by mountains, divided by numerous rivers and streams. While winter has made its first tentative forays into the areas surrounding it, the valley is without snow. For almost as far as you can see it’s simply an expanse of grass, rippling here and there, provoked by a roving breeze, dotted in places with large rocks. Sometimes when you cross the valley, an effort that usually takes more than a day, you encounter nobody else. On those occasions it serves to remind you how very isolated humans have become from each other. 

It’s another couple of hours before you take a break, settling near the bank of a stream with the shelter of the novelist’s son visible to the west, nestled as it is at the base of a foothill. Without a word you stop walking, slide off your pack, and sit down amid the grass. Though you are still trying very hard to pretend Higgs doesn’t exist he still persists and rather than seating himself a desirable distance away he positions himself cross-legged right in front of you. He watches as you remove your canteen and a packet of nuts and dried fruit from your bag, watches as you start to eat. 

“May I?” he queries after you’ve made your way halfway through the bag. Your eyes, which you’d kept steadfastly focused on the ground in front of you, flick to his face. There’s no smirk, none of his elfin malice to be seen and that’s the only reason why you toss the packet to him after taking a final handful. He eats in silence, thankfully, and you try to study him surreptitiously as you take a long pull from your canteen. To say he’s a cipher is an understatement. His usual sardonic mien is absent, in its a place a quietness that unsettles you even more. Being in his presence is a process wherein the tension in your body slowly ratchets up; you can already feel it in your shoulders, an ache different than that you get from hauling cargo. You’re not sure what you’re waiting for, exactly, but you know it won’t be pleasant. 

“How many of you lived in that shelter?”

He asks this as you’re in the middle of taking another drink, waits for you to swallow and replace the cap on the canteen. You’d very much like to avoid answering the question but you know that that’s not an option. You try looking at anything but him but some inexplicable compulsion draws your eyes to his face anyway. He’s watching you intently. You work your jaw, trying to think of words that will suffice without revealing information you’d rather he not know. 

“Four.”

“Family?”

You nod.

“For how long?”

“Too long,” you say, and immediately wish you hadn’t. It was an instinctive response, triggered more by your throttled emotions than by the actual query. 

He’s able to discern the truth from those two simple words. “For most your life.”

Your head jerks in another balky nod.

He shifts, tipping his head just a little as thought to get a better look at your face. The movement leads to his hood obscuring one of his eyes, though you can still feel the weight of it as he regards you. He says, “Not a happy childhood, locked away down there.”

You don’t like this. You don’t like that he’s so perceptive, able to glean so much when knowing so little. You don’t like the way his words make you feel right now, cornered and ensnared. You don’t like that the only reaction you’re capable of is to stare at him when all you really want to do is to get up and bolt. 

“I could tell,” he goes on, his tone casual, his gaze anything but. “Something went on down there. Something left echoes behind.” 

He’s treading perilously close to facts and truths he has no fucking right to. You begin packing up your things with jerky movements. “Hey, hey, hey,” he chides, catching your wrist as you reach for the packet of nuts and fruit. “Don’t get worked up. We’re just talking. Friendly banter. It’s all just words.”

You can feel a muscle ticking along your jaw. It’s more than words and he knows it. You pull at his hold and like before, it’s as though you’re shackled by iron. 

“Was it your mama or your daddy?” You remain mute. He straightens his head and now you can see both of his eyes, pale and piercing as they bore into your own. “Both?” he guesses when you don’t respond. “You said four, so maybe it was the other. Sibling? Aunt? Uncle?”

This needs to stop. “Why does it matter?” you ask, voice stilted in a way you really wish it wasn’t.

“It doesn’t,” he replies contemplatively, “and it does. But you’re not going to tell me, are you?” When you shake your head, he sighs a little. “And here I thought we could do some bonding. Well, why don’t I tell you a little something?”

You don’t really care for that idea either, but it’s better than him prying into your past. You test his hold again and his fingers tighten, not enough to inflict pain but enough that the warning is there. “See, Boots, my daddy… my daddy was—well, he was an asshole. A bad man. Nothing in him worth loving but I had to love him because he was my daddy, didn’t I?”

You get the feeling the question isn’t really meant for you. He’s still looking at you, still holding onto you, but he’s somewhere else, meshed in the recollections he’s recounting aloud. It’s unnerving and a little frightening because Higgs himself is a bad man and you really don’t want to know what his father was like. Except that you do. Morbid curiosity has got its hooks into you now. 

“He had a real low opinion of everyone else. Of the outside world. Thought everyone was out to get him, refused to realize that everybody was too busy with trying to stay alive to give a shit about him. Didn’t matter, though—his paranoia ruled him. Ruled me too, because he wasn’t gonna let the outside world get me. No, I had to stay inside with him, listen to him rant and rave and bullshit until I could hardly take it anymore. I tried to get away numerous times. Tried to run. I never made it far. He always found me. Always brought me back home to the shelter.” Higgs pauses and smiles, a faint, chilling curve of his mouth. “Always made me regret it, too.”

You moisten your lips because they’re dry, because your mouth is dry. It’s a movement he notices; his eyes flick from your eyes to your mouth and back again. He’s not smiling now. His expression is as solemn as you’ve ever seen it. “So maybe you and I aren’t so different. Maybe we’ve got some things in common. Maybe one day you’ll find it in you to share just like I did. What do you think?”

“Maybe,” is all you can manage, an outright lie. 

“Maybe,” he echoes. His fingers tighten again as though he’s going to pull you closer but instead he loosens his hold. You watch wordlessly as he gets to his feet, brushing off crumbs leftover from his small repast. “We should go. Daylight’s burning.”

**.x.**

As dusk approaches you are more than halfway across the valley. You’ve not spoken to Higgs since the break, which suits you fine. He spends his time either walking abreast of you or straying off on his own, but unfortunately he always returns. You try to keep your thoughts focused on tomorrow, on the fact that he’ll (hopefully) leave you after you pick up whatever it is that’s waiting for you at the distribution center. But then your thoughts keep wandering, because you still have to deliver said package. He told you it wasn’t an explosive, but you trust his word not at all. Even if it isn’t, even if it’s something harmless, you know that once you’ve completed the delivery something else will await. Higgs has made it clear he has ongoing plans for you. 

You plan on spending the night on the western outskirts of the valley. Higgs has other ideas. “This way.” he directs you abruptly and it startles you after spending so long in silence. You come to a halt, your look a questioning one. He beckons for you to follow. After several moments you do, trailing him as he heads east and a little north. Nothing lies that way but trouble, which you expect he knows. You are proved correct when, a short time later, you spy the first of the sensor poles that herald territory you’ve never dared to stray into. You stop walking. He doesn’t notice for three strides and when he does, he pauses and half-turns, raising an eyebrow as he does so. “What?”

You indicate the nearest sensor pole with a thrust of your chin. He looks at it, looks back at you, and strides toward it. You hold your breath, unconsciously backing a half-step as he stops before the pole and then, glancing over his shoulder at you, steps past it. It flares orange in a sweeping glow that illuminates the growing dark, emitting an abrasive noise that serves as a trespassing alarm. The noise and the light die down, leaving just the two of you in silence. Higgs lifts a hand, crooks a finger. 

You’re shaking your head. “I can’t.”

“You can,” he corrects. “You will.”

Already you can see headlights in the distance. There isn’t much time before they arrive and once they do, you’ll be swarmed. “They’re coming,” you tell him urgently. 

He doesn’t even bother to look. “Come on. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Is he serious? “They’re—” and you stop, biting off the last word_—terrorists—_and replacing it without speaking:_ like you._ Somehow, unbelievably, you’d forgotten _who_ Higgs is… _what_ he is.

That you’ve reached this little revelation is clear to him in the way he smiles. It’s the expression you’ve come to dread and to hate. “Come on, Boots,” he calls as he backs even further into dangerous territory, holding out his arms in the parody of a welcoming gesture. “I promise it’ll be fine.”

The headlights are drawing nearer. It is a very real struggle not to whirl around and run. He’s asking you to trust him, a man that is the very definition of duplicitous, and tread were you cannot tread. There are worst things than terrorists, you think frantically to yourself as he waits for you on the other side of the sensor pole. There are BTs and he’s already threatened to feed you to them once. You expel a harsh breath, grip the straps of your pack, and walk forward. You trigger the sensor just as Higgs did but make an effort not to react outwardly, aware of his gaze upon you. You expect him to turn and keep walking. Instead he remains still. 

“Why aren’t we moving?” you ask as the sound of the approaching vehicle becomes audible.

“No need. We’re going to catch a ride to camp.”

_To camp?_ The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them. “Are you fucking serious?”

“I’m always serious, except when I’m not.” He’s turned to observe the truck that’s barreling this way. “I thought I’d give us a break from all this walking.”

That he’s mocking you is clear, because you walk for a living and he doesn’t need to because he can _telepor_t somehow. You are inwardly panicking because there are notoriously hostile terrorists on approach and you rattle off the only thing that comes to mind, inane and useless as it is. “I like walking.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Maybe _I’m_ tired of walking.”

“You don’t have to walk, though!”

“Shhhhh,” he says as the truck roars nearer. “I need to make arrangements. Wait here.” 

You watch with wide-eyes and a racing heart as he strides out in front of the truck, raising one hand in a simple yet commanding gesture. The effect is immediate; the truck slams to a halt. Two armed and armored men_—terrorists!—_hop out of the truck and approach Higgs. They converse in tones too low for you to overhear given the idling thunder of the truck’s engine. You stay where you are and try to dwell on the optimistic sliver that is the fact that you haven’t been gunned down just yet. They conclude their discussion and Higgs turns and beckons you nearer. It is with extreme reluctance that you do so.

“Get in,” he orders you, pointing to the passenger side. The cab can fit three, you notice as you draw near, and as the driver climbs back up into his seat he turns his head to look at you. He’s wearing a helmet that completely hides his face and it disturbs you. You hesitate. Higgs puts his hand on your shoulder; you shake it off, reaching up to grip the handle and pull yourself up into the cab. You have to scoot over to make room for Higgs, because of course he follows you up and you are utterly dismayed to find that while there’s room for three, it’s quite crowded. Subsequently once he’s seated, the line of his body is pressed against yours no matter how much you try to shrink in upon yourself. 

Your discomfiture entertains him; he doesn’t even need to lean over to murmur into your ear, “You can relax, Boots. I’m not going to bite.” A word that he doesn’t speak trembles in the air between you. You can hear it clearly, though, a definite threat and perhaps promise: _Yet._

You fix your gaze ahead, hoping the dark hides the way you’re flushing and knowing it doesn’t. The driver brings the truck around in a wide arc, leaving the two other man behind to walk his way home, path illuminated by his odradek. You can see the black geometrical shapes of the camp not far off, the glows of the camp’s lights serving as unwanted invitations. You work on trying to keep your breathing slow and even the closer you get, unwilling to betray your apprehension to the driver. Higgs, you’re certain, is entirely aware of just how frayed your nerves are. When the truck rolls to a stop inside a large tent, you’re _this_ close to full blown panic. You’re in the heart of a terrorist camp with a terrorist leader who’s blackmailing you into doing what you’re sure are deeds nefarious. You’re surrounded by people and you’ve never, ever felt more alone. 

Higgs slides out of the truck, turns, and holds out a hand to you. “Welcome to our accommodations for the night.”

**.x.**

The accommodations, such as they are, amount to a small tent near the edges of the camp that houses two cots, the bare minimum in amenities, and an assortment of crates and scattered belongings. It’s unexpected but you’re not entirely sure what you expected other than it would be different from how you usually spend your nights while on a delivery run when you’re not in a private room. The presence of two cots causes your heart to sink. You know who your roommate is going to be. Higgs had gone off upon arrival with some of the men. You’re not sure his ties to this group other than that he’s known and clearly familiar with them, which you suppose tells you all you need to know. The driver of the truck is the one that beckoned you to follow and you did, weaving through and around other tents until you’d arrived at this one. He pointed inside without a word and left, leaving you to slide your pack off your shoulders with a sigh and plunk yourself down on one of the cots. You’re tired but are far too keyed up to even attempt to rest. Voices are audible from outside and you move to the tent’s entrance, absently gripping one of the support poles. It is fully dark now but the light towers stationed throughout the camp are powerful and you’ve got a clear view of the camp dwellers. There’s a long tent that must serve as a mess based on the fact that a few people leave it with plates laden with food. Standard camp fare, perhaps, but the scent that carries to you is one that has your stomach rumbling abruptly. You frown, annoyed by your body’s response given the current situation you’re in, laying your hand flat across your belly as though in reprimand.

“All meals are complimentary.”

Higgs. He’s approaching from the right. You wonder where he’s coming from, how long he’s been watching you. You find yourself backing a step as he draws closer. “Let’s go,” he says, holding out his hand as though you’d willingly take it. Your eyes narrow and it’s on the tip of your tongue to refuse but you realize you’d only be spiting yourself. You need to eat. You’ve got food, yeah, but it’s nothing more than travel snacks because you hadn’t planned on this excursion. He’s waiting for you. You give him a terse nod and follow as he leads you to the mess.

Inside it’s full of four long tables arranged in a cluster in the middle and a line of shorter tables along one wall that bear food. There’s an abundance of it, standard fare that’s easy to make and easy to store, something that looks like a stew so redolent with a hearty aroma that your stomach rumbles again. The tent’s not full, you’re relieved to see, and there only about eight others seated at the tables eating. Without their helmets they are somehow less intimidating, men and women simply enjoying their dinner and the company of each other. Except, you remind yourself, they are _terrorists,_ people entirely willing to wreak havoc with the goal of achieving the worst possible consequences. That thought sours your appetite. You feel the combined weight of speculative gazes settle over you as you follow Higgs, as he hands you a bowl, as he ladles food into it, as he hands you utensils. You keep following him to a table where he takes a seat and indicates you sit facing him. You obey. Your docility earns you an appraising look, which you ignore as you start to eat. Choices in abundance are not a thing for you right now, hence your resolve to keep your head down and do whatever you have to to get through this as quickly as possible. 

You eat in silence. Higgs does as well, except when spoken to in passing by the others. Those that address him do so respectfully, some casually, some playfully. You observe and make note but don’t venture to speak. Nobody asks who you are and Higgs doesn’t bother making introductions. Perhaps in the grand scheme of things, you’re not important enough to warrant an introduction. You’re okay with that. The two of you finish your meals at the same time and you fear some effort at conversation on his behalf but instead he rises and crosses over to the table nearby, sitting and addressing the other seated there. You pile your dishes with his and decide to make a quick exit, ducking out the tent flap and making your way back to your assigned quarters. Along the way you debate grabbing your pack and attempting to sneak away, but you’re not stupid enough to think there won’t be sentries, not stupid enough to think that Higgs won’t have told them to be on alert for an escape attempt. “Escape” makes it sound like you’re a prisoner, though, and you’re not really. Are you? Your uncertainty in this regard is frustrating beyond belief.

It’s late. You’re full and reluctant to admit that the meal was one of the best you’ve had in, well, years. If not for the present circumstances you could almost be content. As it is, you decide that sleep is the best way to pass the remaining hours. You fully intend to be gone from here by dawn. Your cot is slightly less uncomfortable than sleeping on the ground, with the addition of a pillow and a blanket about as threadbare than the one you carry with you. You bunch the pillow up under your head, lay down on your back, stare up at the tent roof and will slumber to ambush you. No luck. You think about Higgs, about what he is and what he does (both of which you’re a little fuzzy on, probably for the better). You think about what awaits you in the days that loom, wonder if things will ever go back to normal. With your help, Higgs destroyed a waystation. Killed people. Likely intends to kill more with your help. You lie awake a long while attempting to piece together_ any_ kind of plan that could extricate you from the this complicated little web Higgs has you tangled in. Sleep finds you before a solution does.

**.x.**

You’ve been blessed in that you don’t often dream of things that have transpired, of things you’d rather forget. Others do, you know—there are nightmares enough for everyone in this world, waking or otherwise. The past tends to remain the past for you, a fact you very much appreciate. Memories can be insidious things sometimes, encroaching on contentment and sanity. Something in your genetic makeup or psyche (or perhaps some other indefinable quality) has let you erect barricades against the recollections you wish you didn’t have and they have been for the most part effective. They eroded slightly during your most recent time spent in the shelter but you’d managed to fortify them, or so you thought. 

You dream tonight. It’s not a vivid procession of flashbacks. It’s just fragments, a scattered word or sensation or sight all strung together by filaments of emotion. It’s still enough, still more than enough, to send you into a freefall of frenzied despair because this part of your life is gone, should be gone, _needs_ to be gone—locked up, shuttered away, exiled beyond the reach of whatever rebellious, inquisitive self-destructive tendrils your inner self might have. But it’s not gone. Not tonight. Tonight you suffer. Higgs is in these dreams, a figure hooded and cloaked, always on the periphery, an observer ambivalent to all that transpires. You break in dreams as you did in reality, reaching for the one and only thing you might offer you succor, the unknown factor even though you know he _will_ break you too.

You’re awake. You’re awake, blinking, looking through lashes beaded with sweat and you are pervaded with a malignant fever heat. Every part of you aches. You can hear the gentle thrumming of rain on the tent roof.

“Boots,” Higgs says. Your eyes flick to the side, where he stands looking down at you. Had he pulled you from dreaming? Had he answered the desperate plea you hadn’t really uttered? You want to ask but you can’t because pain suddenly blooms at the base of your neck, unfurling outward across your skull. A mewl escapes from your mouth, a piteous sound and you hate it but you can’t stop it because that pain is evolving, transferring. It manifests in a new form behind your left eye, so agonizing that it is quite literally blinding. Your hands jerk toward your face. 

Higgs seizes your wrists, perching on the edge of your cot. You can’t see out of your left eye—there is only gaping blackness there. “I can’t see!” you gasp out, terrified.

He won’t let you go, riding out your struggles until you fall limp. The torment in your head is unlike anything you’ve known before, all-consuming and relentless and it renders you incapable of anything other than breathing. He leans over, slides his hands under you, and pulls you into a sitting position until you’re flush against him. What you need to do is to shove him away, to climb out of this cot and put some distance between you, but you’ve no strength to do so. Your hands are braced flat on his chest and that’s the extent of your resistance. Your forehead rests on his shoulder; his voice is quiet in your ear as he speaks. 

“DOOMS. It’s progressing.” His fingers are at your nape, brushing aside sweat-damp strands of hair. He presses his palm unerringly to the origin point of the pain, his touch a cool balm. You drift in suffering for a span of time you’re incapable of measuring as the hurting slowly recedes. Neither of you move, locked in this unwanted embrace, your hands the only barrier between you both.

“Can you see?” he asks eventually. You strive to open your eyes, weighed down as they feel. Your left eye functions as it should and you stare down at your own fingers splayed against him. His BB pod is gone, you realize. He repeats his question and you respond with a sluggish nod. He withdraws the hand at your neck, gripping you by the shoulders and pushing you back down. He’s frowning faintly as he looks upon you, an expression you’ve never seen on him before. It worries you. He stands abruptly, striding to the tent’s entrance and slipping through it. 

In the absence of the agony in your head, you’re made aware of your body’s other complaints. The throbbing aches are persistent, slowly rippling through your limbs and joints. You lift an unsteady hand, press the back of it to your forehead, are unsurprised at the heat you feel there. Is this malady a part of DOOMS as well? At some point you’d kicked your blanket to the ground and your fingers tug at the collar of your overalls in a futile cooling effort. Your head lolls from side to side. The pillow is damp from your sweat. You close your eyes under the insistence of an unnatural weariness, let the sound of the timefall lull you. 

When you wake next Higgs has returned, resuming his place at your bedside. He’s got your canteen in hand and you watch as he unscrews the cap. This is the first time you’ve seen him without his hood down and he looks very different without it, his dark hair close cropped, his face more open to view. He slides a hand under your head and lifts, bringing the canteen to your mouth. You drink gratefully, parched as you are, and when you’re done he turns to set the canteen aside. You push your head back into the pillow in a tired effort to seek comfort. You think you should thank him and discard the notion immediately. 

“You made me dream,” you say instead. A drop of water still clinging to your lower lip is dislodged with the movement. Higgs intercepts it with his thumb at the corner of your mouth.

“Did I?”

“You were there,” you persist with exhausted doggedness. “In them. Watching.”

He says nothing. He’s still touching you, drags the pad of this thumb along the swell of your lower lip. Your heart seizes and you blink rapidly, suspended between fear and a frightening curiosity. His touch lingers for the span of a few seconds before he pulls his hand away. Air floods into your lungs. 

He says, “You wouldn’t tell me. I wanted to see for myself.”

It’s not possible. It can’t be done. Nobody can trigger dreams, insert themselves into those dreams, but then again this is a man who has no fear of BTs, a man who treads among them with impunity. You voice another suspicion aloud, a thought that gains substance suddenly. “You made it rain.”

He gives a short shake of his head. 

“You wanted me sick.”

Another head shake. “The timefall came on its own.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He half-smiles. “I know.”

“I don’t want to be here,” you tell him. You’d sound angry if not for the fact that your voice has no strength whatsoever.

“No?” He cocks a brow in insincere disbelief. “Where would you rather be? Back at _home?”_

That question and the emphasis he places on it makes you wince inwardly. “What did you see?”

“Hardly anything. Enough to confirm what I thought.”

“How can you… it was _my_ dream.”

“Nothing’s ever really yours in this life, Boots.” He lifts a hand, brushes errant tendrils of hair back from your brow. His touch is cool and you hate that your heated skin craves it. You hate the strange intimacy of this moment, hate that he’s most definitely aware of it too, that he’s deliberately engendered it. There’s a helpless, baleful nature to your stare now, one that he meets head on without expression. “You don’t own your dreams. You don’t own your decisions… well, not anymore.”

You observe each other in silence. He’s no longer touching you but his hand rests on the cot by the pillow and you fear he’ll reach for you again just because of how unsettled it makes you. “There are other porters, other people. Why did you pick me?”

He shrugs. “It happened on a whim.”

_“Why_ do you need me to do these things?”

“I don’t.” Your eyes narrow. He smiles. “Everything you’ve done and will do for me I could do for myself. But you already figured that much out.”

“Then _why—?”_

“Boredom. Curiosity. Other things.”

_Other things._ You want to ask about that too but he waylays you, laying a finger against your lips. “Hush. Rest now. Interrogate me later.”

You say with certainty, “You won’t answer me later.”

“I might.” He stands, gestures to the other side of the tent where his own cot lies. “Try to sleep. I’ll be right here.” He reads an unspoken concern as it flickers across your face and responds to it. “You’ll feel better when the timefall stops.” 

_How can you know that?_ You don’t think you voice that question aloud but he answers it anyway, shrugging again. “Guess you’ll have to trust me.”

He turns, makes his way to where he’s to sleep. Angry and afraid and feeling outside of yourself you struggle onto your side so that your back is to him. Nothing makes sense right now, particularly him, and what’s even worse is that it’s not the fever making things seem this way. Whenever this malady passes reality will seem exactly the same—

Strange. Frightening. Hopeless.

**.x.**


	5. A slow reveal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: Some violence in this chapter.**

You walk out of the camp at dawn. You still don’t feel well. You’ve got a headache (the regular type), your stomach is unsettled, and you feel almost as weak and out of sorts as you did the night before. No fever, thankfully, and that’s really the only reason you were able to get off the cot upon awakening. Nobody tries to stop you, though the three guards posted on the northern perimeter do watch you depart. Higgs was nowhere to be seen when you woke and you assume he’s tending to business, the business that will likely lead to the seeds of chaos being sewn somewhere in the world at a later date. You’re one of those seeds. You can no longer pretend you’re not. Higgs will either catch up with you or he won’t. If not, you’re certain he’ll be waiting for you at the distribution center. 

The weather is uncomfortably warm, unfortunately, one of those strange autumn days that decides to manifest what remains of summer’s potency. You attempt trying to eat as you walk, nibbling on bland crackers and sipping at water, hoping to settle your stomach. The headache fades eventually, but you still feel odd, nearly feeble, as though you’ve just recovered from a weak long illness. It troubles you a great deal and even though you try not to dwell on it you can’t help it. You can’t deny what Higgs has said. You have DOOMS. It explains a great deal, things you’ve been aware of but have chose not to focus on for fear of what they mean: the headaches whenever you’re around BTs and the worst of timefall storms, obviously, but also your bizarre resistance to the effects of timefall itself. You’re not immune—no, you were forced to test that theory long ago, locked out of the shelter that had been your home, at the mercy of a storm. Timefall doesn’t immediately age you as it does everything else. It takes minutes of exposure before the first wrinkles and age spots appear, and you bear that proof along the length of your right forearm. It’s just a small patch, because that’s the part of your body you couldn’t hide away fast enough all those years ago. DOOMS has apparently been in your genetic make up all along, but why is it intensifying now? You suspect—nay, you are almost certain—that Higgs is somehow the reason. 

He catches up with you a couple of hours out from camp, simply appearing to your right with a crackling sound and a small explosion of black particles. You don’t even spare him a glance, though your stride hitches momentarily. 

“Impolite to leave without thanking your hosts,” he scolds you. 

“You can give them my gratitude the next time you see them,” is your cool retort. 

He chuckles. “Something bothering you, Boots?”

You stop and turn, staring hard at him. He waits out your scrutiny with an infuriating air of blithe indifference. Finally you demand, “What do you need me for?”

“I don’t,” he shrugs a little. “Need you, that is. Not really.”

“Give me a straight fucking answer!”

“No,” he says, “I don’t think I will.”

Ire knots your throat. You have to swallow twice to coax your voice past it. “Are you ever going to leave me alone?”

A very faint and amused twist of his lips accompanies his response. “What do you think?”

What you want to do right now is haul off and clock him in the mouth. You can’t, because you’ve been on the receiving end of his physical retribution once already, because to do so would invite a reaction you can’t fathom but fully dread. Still, it’s an overwhelming urge and you whirl around in order to subdue it because looking at his smug countenance only fuels it. He knows it, too—you hear his soft hum of amusement behind you. Higgs delights in being vague and infuriating and your current reaction brings him pleasure, which you hate. It’s a shitty cycle of emotion and reaction and you are completely and inescapably confined within it. You duck your head, trying to combat a sudden wave of dizziness, to fight off the malaise that lingers from last night, to find solid footing in a world that spitefully has none. 

He’s circling you slowly, one step at a time, a predatory tread. He stops behind you, steps closer, too close, and you feel his hand settle on your shoulder. You attempt to shrug it off. He tightens his fingers, a reminder of what could be. 

“You need to get used to this,” he tells you, moving even nearer. He removes his hand and your rush of relief abates immediately because he rests his chin on your shoulder and when he speaks his breath fans strands of your hair. “You need to get used to _me._ I’m a fixture in your life now. I’m not going anywhere.”

You try to take a step forward but he waylays you by snaking an arm around you, splaying his hand against your stomach. You stiffen, staring straight ahead, breathing hard through your nostrils. He nestles his head closer, nuzzling against your cheek, unabashedly reveling in how uncomfortable he’s making you in this moment. “Take it easy, Boots. Learn to relax. Not everything has to be difficult.”

“You used me,” you remind him in a tight voice, “to kill people.”

“I would have killed them without you,” he says in a parody of appeasement, “so there’s no point in dwelling on it.”

You make a furious noise, your hand clamping around his wrist in an attempt to yank it away. He resists, pressing his palm more firmly against you, pulling you back against him. “Boots,” he says in a voice barely more than a whisper, each word tickling your ear, “Stop fighting me. This doesn’t have to be a bad thing. What we’ve got going here—it can work out in your favor, beyond anything you could possibly expect.” 

_Fuck this._ You jab your elbow backward and are rewarded with the sound of his explosive, pained grunt. His hold loosens just a bit and you take advantage of that, lunging to the side in an attempt to slip free. He’s not done with you yet, though, and he throws his other arm around your neck, hauling you toward him again. You fight, kicking backward, attempting another elbow jab, but you’ve lost the element of surprise. His arm at your neck tightens until your breathing is restricted, and tightens even further when you furiously attempt to shake him off. 

“Stop it,” he warns you, breathing hard from exertion, his voice still much too close to your ear. Your breath is rasping in your throat, thin and insubstantial, and you drop to your knees in an effort to escape him. He follows you down, imprisoning you in his ungentle embrace. “Boots,” he warns, low and intense as you claw at him. The length of his arm presses harder against your throat until all you can manage to do is wheeze and he hauls you to your feet again. Greater alarm surges through you. You stomp down blindly, frantically, and manage to actually connect with his instep. He grunts, staggers back, and his grip falters just enough for you to tear free. 

You run, unthinking, driven by panic and the lingering sensation of being unable to breathe. You run even though you know it’s futile, even though you know that escaping him in this life is an impossibility. Behind you he shouts out your nickname, an angry sound you’ve never heard from him before. You fear Higgs for so many reasons and now you’ve got a new one. There’s a crackling noise and you swerve to avoid the inevitable but he slams into you full force from the side. You hit the ground so hard you cry out, his body toppling across yours. Your fingers rake furrows into the earth as you struggle to pull yourself free. His hands are on your sides, grasping at your coveralls, and he roughly flips you over onto your back. He straddles you, one knee on either side of you, catching at your arms as you pummel at him. He’s not quite fast enough; one of your fists connects with his jaw, snapping his head to the side. 

“That’s about enough out of you,” he growls, clamping one hand around your neck. You fully expect to be strangled and you writhe beneath him, but he doesn’t squeeze. He just pins you there. You buck your hips furiously and almost dislodge him, but all the fight goes out of you the next instant because he lays his hand flat on the ground and suddenly black fluid is seeping up through the dirt. It rises swiftly, soaking through your hair and your coveralls, and with it come the hands, rising from the depths. You turn your head, fighting against his hold, and a horrified whimper slips from your mouth as oily fingers tangle in your hair. 

“Now you see,” Higgs says, removing his hand from your neck even as others rise from the blackness to fasten about your arms and legs. He stays where he is, straddling you still. He works his jaw, rubs at his mouth with one finger, smearing a little blood across his chin. If you weren’t currently being restrained by BTs you’d feel a bit of vindictive pleasure at the sight. He leans forward, caging you with hands on either side of your head, until his face hovers just a couple inches above yours. 

“Now you understand, hmm? Maybe I needed to show you this sooner. I’ve got what I guess you could call a good connection with the other side. I call, they come. Convenient, don’t you think?”

You say nothing but swallow hard because you can _feel_ those fingers, so many, _too_ many, tangling in your hair and flexing against your limbs. The heads attached to them are surfacing, rising out of the black to show you visages that are fluidly disfigured but still human enough to horrify you with their eldritch familiarity. They are many of them and they’re all clinging to you, anchoring you to the earth. Higgs couldn’t have found a better way to scare you into submission.

“So,” he says, unperturbed by the spectres he’s just summoned, his eyes centered on yours with such intensity that you can’t look away, “this is how it is. I could tell them to drag you down. I could let them consume you. But then there’d be a void out and it would take out that camp back there and I don’t want that to happen. And anyway—I like you, Boots. I’m not quite ready to say goodbye.”

He shifts his weight a little and you foolishly hope he’ll get up and move away. No luck. “There’s nothing, _nothing,_ that can stop me from doing what I want to do. I think you understand that now, yeah?” He waits for a response and it’s a few seconds before you’re able to give him a single choppy nod. “Good. You want to know why I’m doing this to you? Because I can. Because you interest me. Because maybe I wanted someone to accompany me before the end — and it’s nearer than you think. You seem so sure that your life before all this is what you need to go back to but I’m not sure that’s true. All you did was walk from one place to another, carrying cargo for others too cowardly and weak to crawl out of their holes. Admirable of you in a way, but also a little sad. Don’t you think you deserve better than to be a workhorse for the rest of your days?”

Fingers that don’t belong to him stroke over your cheek. You squeeze your eyes shut. You’re trembling. Maybe he can tell, because his voice softens a little, a deceptive kindness. “Work _with_ me, Boots. Do as I ask and I’ll reward you. Fight me and you’ll get more of _this.”_

“I won’t kill more people,” you manage to croak out.

“I know you won’t. I won’t ask you to.” Your eyes snap open and your disbelief is clear. He gives you a crooked smile. “You have my word. Just finish this job for me. Just deliver the package. I’ll even show you what it is. Sound good?”

You’re not going to give him a response. Instead you utter a strained inquiry. “And after?”

“I’ll show you more things,” he says. “Things like this. Things you need to see.”

“Why?”

“Why not? Time is short. Maybe I want someone to share what’s left of it with.”

_What the actual fuck is he saying?_ “I’m not—”

He cuts you off. “You’re just you, I know. Nothing too special. Nothing exceptional. Nothing that stands out. Except you did, somehow. Snagged my attention that day beneath the shelter, and now here we are.” He gives a lazy shrug. “I don’t get it either, but as I said, Boots—I like you. I like you enough to keep you around. Take it as a compliment.”

“You hurt me,” you tell him incredulously, a needless reminder.

“I did,” he agrees with ease, “to get you to listen. Is what I did worse than what they did to you down there in that shelter?”

These words, these words he’s purposefully selected—they wound you to the quick. Combined with everything else they are just the right amount of pressure needed to make you crack. Tears swiftly well up in your eyes and you hate that fact, hate that he’s here to witness them. This special kind of chaos he brings clearly isn’t going away any time soon and you’re trapped by it as completely as you are by BTs right now, utterly helpless and unwilling. He swipes away a tear with one thumb, a tender movement totally at odds with everything else he’s done and is capable of doing. The blackness is receding, seeping back into the ground and with it go the beached things, their fingers trailing over you as they slip back to whatever inexplicable, unfathomable place they dwell. In their absence you’re left damp and cold with Higgs still holding himself over you. His face fills the entirety of your vision, his pale eyes boring into your own. You’re suspended in this strange, unwanted intimacy again, the same you’d experienced the night before, the intimacy that he’s undoubtedly designed to further whatever ends he has in mind. His head dips just a fraction. Your breath catches and you’re unable to keep from flinching, from twisting your head to the side. You’re afraid of what happens next, are surprised and relieved when instead he slowly climbs off of you.

“Come on,” he says once he’s standing. He doesn’t bother holding out his hand; it seems he’s learning, too. You get to your feet slowly, eyes skimming the ground where you’d just lain for any signs of the BTs that had touched you. There’s nothing. It’s almost as though you’d imagined the whole thing, but your heart is still beating so frantically from the aftermath that you know for certainty that it had transpired. Your stomach is roiling, a lingering remnant of what ailed you the night before worsened by what you’ve just experienced. 

“Once you make the delivery,” Higgs says, staring off in the direction of the distribution center, “I’ll show you everything you need to see.”

“I don’t want to see it.”

“You will, though,” he insists evenly. “And once you do, you’ll understand.”

The way he says it sends a shiver rolling across the slope of your shoulders. You eye him warily, fearfully, and he meets your look without expression. “Let’s go,” he says, heading off toward the distribution center as though he hadn’t just threatened your life with BTs, as if he hadn’t just implied the two of you are bound together indefinitely, as if this is just a normal walk, as though it’s a simple, uneventful day. You follow because he’s right—you know the truth of it now. 

You have no choice. 

**.x.**

He waits patiently as you retrieve your boots from the center’s private locker and once you’re done, he takes his turn at the terminal. He retrieves a box that’s flat and wide and he beckons you to follow him up the ramp, back out into the sunlight. You do so reluctantly. Outside, he leads you around the corner of the center. 

“Put them on,” he orders, gesturing to the footwear you’re carrying. Mute and irate and still shaken from your most recent encounter with BTs, you sit down and begin undoing the laces on the boots you’re wearing. As you slide them off he sets the box down beside you. “Open it when you’re done,” he directs, and then walks back around the corner of the center. You put on your old boots and do up the bright laces while trying unsuccessfully to ignore the fact that their strands contain his blood. Once you’re done, you pick up the package he left behind. It’s contained in a cheap, simple metal case meant to protect whatever is within from the timefall, but it won’t endure much exposure. There’s no label, no yellow tape on the case, so you find the latch and crack it open. Inside is another box, cardboard and white. You lift up the lid and stare down at the contents in bewilderment. It’s an article of clothing, plain black. You pick one side up with two fingers, rubbing them together. Nylon. It’s a bathing suit. _What the fuck?_ You slowly replace the lid, shut the metal case, and set it off to the side. 

“Boots!” 

Higgs is calling you from around the corner. You get to your feet, retrieve his package, and warily walk back toward the center’s entrance. He’s waiting there and next to him is a black reverse trike, clean and shining and clearly just fabricated. You choose to ignore the vehicle as you approach, instead gesturing to the package you’re holding. “What is this?”

“Didn’t you look?”

“A bathing suit?”

“You don’t think she’ll like it?” As you stare at him, he elaborates, “She’s a vain kind of woman. Or at least she was, once.”

“This is seriously what you need me to deliver?”

He nods. 

“Why can’t you just give it to her?”

“She and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms.”

Nothing about this makes sense, but then a moment later it all does. “This will upset her,” you say slowly. “It’s somehow an insult.”

He gives you an insolent half-smile. “Yes. Only hurt feelings, this time. No bomb. Satisfied?”

You’re not, you’re really not, but your most prominent fear has been assuaged. You don’t bother responding though, instead slipping off your pack and sliding his box into it. 

“A gift,” he announces once you’re done, patting the trike’s seat. “Another gift,” he amends, glancing down at your boots. “This should make things a bit easier for you from now on.”

“Do I need to deliver this within a time limit?”

“No. The trike is yours to keep.”

As much as you want the trike — and you do, you really do, because while you don’t mind walking you’d be able to move a lot more cargo a lot faster if you had it — you’re hesitant to accept it. He correctly interprets your hesitation. “Not everything has strings attached. Besides, I’ve already got you tied to me.”

You really don’t like the way he says that and you slant a sharp glance his way. If he notices, he doesn’t acknowledge it. You step up to the bike, touching one handle. “Where am I delivering this?”

“Distribution center south of Lake Knot.”

“And after that?”

He shrugs. “Do whatever you like.”

“Until you need me next.”

His smile manifests fully. “Until then.”

He steps back. You swing a leg over the trike, gripping the handles, adjusting your weight experimentally. You’ve driven one before, back when Bridges rented them out, but it’s been a while. Higgs watches as you reacquaint yourself. Without looking at him, you ask, “Where will you go?”

“Back to Lake Knot. I have a… friend… in need of advisement.”

“A friend,” you venture, “like the one this gift is for?”

“Exactly,” he says, and his smile this time is almost hostile, a baring of teeth. You feel a pang of sympathy for whoever this nameless friend is. You shove it away. You can only afford to be concerned about yourself right now. 

A press of a button starts the trike. The engine, brand new as it is, runs with a smooth purr. You grip both handles and settle down onto the seat. You look at him, wishing this would be the last time you see him while knowing it’s not. He leans in close, expression suddenly very serious. “You’re not going to do anything stupid again, right? Wherever you go, I _will_ find you. You won’t like the methods I might use next time.”

Your fingers tighten on the trike’s handles as the recollection of lying prone in a pool full of BTs washes over you. You shake your head in answer to his question. 

“Good,” he says, and takes three steps backward. He lifts a hand and waves farewell. “I’ll see you soon, Boots.”

The air crackles and he vanishes in a ripple of black. Those strange, tiny particles float around where he’d just stood before dissipating. You remain where you are for a long span of seconds, lost in unpleasant thought. Finally you stir, lifting your legs and placing your feet on the foot pegs, pulling back on the handles so that the bike accelerates. It does so easily and you drive it in a wide turn, heading west. The repaving efforts haven’t extended this far west yet, so there’s a bit off-roading to be done until you can get on the black top at the incinerator. The battery should last that long and if it doesn’t, you know of a couple generator locations you can use if needed. You depart from the center quickly, taking the high ground, hoping to get to the next center sooner rather than later. And after that…

You don’t fucking know what to do then.

**.x.**

You make your destination a couple of hours after dusk. There’s a cluster of porters around the terminal so you take advantage of the rush, reaching through them with polite utterances and dropping Higgs’ box into the tray. Without the label there’s no way to tell where it came from (or who it’s addressed to), but Higgs was certain it would get to the recipient regardless. You debate leaving the center but don’t, because there’s always the risk of a storm and the thought of tackling one in the dark seems like a bad time. You take a room at the center where you eat, shower, and then collapse into bed. You’re exhausted, worn out from the unrelenting stress of the last two days. You drift off easily and your slumber is mercifully dreamless. At dawn you are on the road again, having made the decision upon awakening to head to South Knot. There’s no real reason, other than it puts you as far from where you last saw Higgs as currently possible, and before you depart you pick up a couple of medium sized orders to take with you. Might as well earn some money while you can, just in case the wild (hopeless) escape scenario you’ve been nurturing in the farthest recesses of your mind someday becomes possible. 

The storm comes up from behind you, its thunder going unheard due to the trike’s engine until it’s too late, until lightning flashes and the air around you trembles. A glance over your shoulder reveals rolling thunderheads above, on the verge of letting fall their timefall burden. You don’t stop. You decide to try and outrun the storm, or at least stay ahead of the terrors it brings. It works for a while—you’re able to keep ahead of it until the road begins to curve in tight switchbacks. You have no choice but to slow to navigate the corners. The rain starts. 

You pull over when you spy the small crab floating in the air, an impossibility made possible by the mechanics of the death stranding. You’ve heard stories of those who’ve driven through BT zones only to have themselves and their vehicle pulled down into oblivion. You pull over, turn off the bike and wait, still seated. The spattering of the water is loud against your hood. Your breathing fogs the air in small huffs, scattered instantly by the downpour. Beneath the bike, beside your feet, tiny plants are growing and then withering. You wait because there’s nothing else you can really do aside from wait for the pain, wait for the terror. They come swiftly and in that order, the knot of agony unraveling at the base of your neck and then racing across the expanse of your skull. The space behind your left eye explodes and even though you’re prepared for it it still hurts so much that you have to stifle a moan. You clap your hand over your eye and rock back and forth slightly, a useless instinctive movement meant to alleviate the pain. How long you’re like this you don’t know, until suddenly something changes. Something feels different in that eye. You hesitantly lower your hand, lift your head and blink, expecting the same blindness as before. It’s not there, though—you can see out of it. 

You can see _them._

You stare around in silent, horrified astonishment. You can see the BTs out of your left eye. The dissonance between what each eye can see is distracting so you place your hand over the right in order to view the world out of your new, altered vision. They are there, all around you, black phantoms from another world and tethered to this one. You’re so astounded by this development that it takes you a while to realize that the pain is gone. Around you the storm rages, lightning and thunder sundering the air, timefall aging the brand new bike you’re currently astride. Your eye darts back and forth, alighting on one BT before moving onto the next. There are _so_ many. 

You’re seized by a bizarre urge that swells up so abruptly that you’re helpless against it. You get off the trike. About ten feet in front of you floats a BT with a vaguely feminine outline. Hand still covering your right eye, you take one step and then another toward the wraith. You’re moving slowly, your footsteps barely audible. The part of your brain responsible for logic is screaming at the rest, at the part that’s in command of your body as you approach the BT. You’re operating under the control of something much like curiosity but much more compelling and far more powerful. Fear is present too; you can feel it like you felt Higgs’ arm around your neck, almost strangling you. The BT is so close now that you can hear it as it wavers to and fro as though buffeted by the wind. It makes tormented sounds, distorted groans of misery and hatred displaced by a schism in realities. You’re almost within touching distance of the BT when it hears you, and then the handprints appear as they pound across the wet ground toward you. 

_I’m fucked now,_ you think, and you are. You are. It’s too late to run. It _knows_ you now. The handprints reach you, the BT drifting close behind, and you can’t even move away as the hands appear from below, gripping your legs, your ankles. In your mind’s eye you see the next few moments of your life, being dragged away, being dragged down, being swallowed whole and the subsequent void out that will follow. You’re not prepared, can’t fathom precisely _why_ you did this to yourself— 

—the hands that grasp at you withdraw instantly, shriveling away, vanishing back beneath the earth. The BT that looms so near makes a shrieking noise and ascends, clawing at itself in a frenzy. You watch, mute and motionless, as it slowly disintegrates. In its absence there is an eerie silence broken only by the sound of the rain. 

_They’ll give you a softer step when it counts,_ Higgs had said of the laces he’d gifted you._ See that red in there? Yeah. Just like your strand, except that’s my blood._

He has given you a defense against the BTs, an actual and _effective_ defense. Higgs, terrorist and scourge and enemy to every living thing on this ravaged earth, gifted you with the ability to walk through BTs and survive. This is impossible. This can’t be real. You remain where you are, staring at the ground, trapped between the warring factions of fear and awe. This is a part of what he promised you, a twist in your fate you never could have comprehended, just as he’d said. It’s the first of the many changes he assured you of. You both dread and desire to know the rest of them now, and it troubles you greatly that the desire is almost equal to the fear.

When you walk back toward the trike, you make no effort to move quietly.

**.x.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meant to get this out before Christmas but no dice. Hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season. Thank you as always for reading!


	6. The bigger picture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had most of this chapter finished and then the Final Fantasy 7 Remake dropped, so I got distracted. Sorry for the wait and if you're still reading, thanks for sticking around!

That night, not-so-safely within the confines of your room in South Knot, you experience the other less than delightful things brought on by the advancement of DOOMS: nightmares, similar to the fever dreams you once experienced as a teenager but different than the dreams Higgs caused. These are expansive, a reality unto themselves, portrayals of suffering and death on a scale you suspect you are unequipped to truly comprehend. Fire and plague and genocide, floodwaters and war and earthquakes—you witness every type of possible human demise thousands of times over, caged in these dreams. You are buried beneath bodies—they pile up around you in varying states of decay, the moist stench of rot clogging your nostrils. You feel them, their limbs pressed against yours. You cannot move but you can watch as they plummet from a black rift in the sky to land near you, atop you. You are suffocating beneath them, yet another senseless, needless death in this tableau of so many…

When you wake you are drenched in sweat, your blanket bunched around your feet. Every breath you take is labored as you wrestle with the sensation of being buried alive by corpses. You lack the energy to do anything other than roll over on to your side and stare at the wall, wondering why things went so completely wrong, wondering why it all had to happen to  _you. _ Answers aren’t forthcoming and you know they never will be—all you can do is chalk it all up to a catastrophic case of bad luck. You get up, pad over to the sink, and ferry water to your mouth via a cupped hand. You avoid looking at yourself in the mirror; suffering from disturbingly immersive nightmares about death on a global scale are probably going to make you look a lot worse than just “tired.”

You don’t sleep much that night, or the others that follow. The dreams won’t let you.

DOOMS fucking sucks.

**.x.**

You endure the changes to your life, if you can call it enduring. You think of it as simply existing. After a great deal of deliberation you decide to resume your porter duties, though you had at one point seriously considered spending the entirety of your savings on supplies and simply walking out of South Knot and heading to the southwest, up into the barren highlands, in an attempt to escape Higgs. You discarded the idea because you knew if you did so you’d die—even with Higgs’ laces on your boots, you’d fall prey to the mechanics of the death stranding sooner or later. Your choices, as he’d so kindly outlined for you, are few: do as he says or know suffering. You’ve chosen the former, which has ironically led to you experiencing the latter.

Days stretch into weeks with nary a sign of your tormentor. It’s a different, subtle kind of hell, to expect him to be lurking literally anywhere, never actually encountering him, and knowing that eventually it  _will _ happen. You expect it is all by design, yet another reason to hate and fear the man. With his presence an invisible yet tangible weight tangled around your shoulders, you continue on with your life, picking up orders and making deliveries, traveling from one center to another. Your tasks are made a great deal easier due to the trike, but you refuse to feel anything even remotely like gratitude toward Higgs for gifting it to you. As far as you are concerned, you fucking earned it. 

The dreams don’t stop. They don’t lessen in severity. The only good thing about them is that they don’t happen every night. If they did, you suspect your sanity would begin to falter. As it is, you find yourself mired in grim thinking almost all the time and you spend the days after you experience the nightmares gritty-eyed and weary. You try to track down sleeping pills, but they are rare and expensive. Nightmares are a shared affliction these days, as it turns out. Even more bad luck for you.

Nearly two months after your last encounter with Higgs, you are on the highway heading toward the weather station, carrying an order of several cases of industrial grade batteries from Lake Knot. You’re hunkered down low over the trike in an attempt to shelter from the biting snap of the wind, which rose quickly and without warning as it tends to do. You don’t need to look over your shoulder to know what the sky will look like—you can feel it, a prickling that skitters over your flesh like an errant insect. You’re not exactly trying to outrun the storm, but you wouldn’t complain if you were able to, or if the wind suddenly changed direction. Even though you have the ability now to destroy BTs (sort of), you still hate being caught in timefall. As lightning flashes somewhere in the distance behind you, your hands tighten on the trike’s handles and you lean into an upcoming curve. Once you’re through it, you straighten up, catching a glimpse of something that makes you suck in a sharp breath.

There’s a figure standing in the middle of the road, in defiance of the wind and what it heralds. You know who it is even before you can make out the smaller details, like the way his cloak is blown out behind him, or the fact that is face is obscured by a gold mask. You don’t hit the brakes immediately because you’re busy envisioning what it would be like to run him down. Your mind’s eye can perfectly present to you the desirable outcome: an impact that would send him flying, limbs succumbing to ragdoll physics as he’s hurled from the road. It would probably kill you as well. You think you’d be okay with that sacrifice, though—the world doesn’t need you and it  _definitely _ will do better without Higgs. So strong is your desire that you have to fight with yourself to engage the brakes, end up doing so at a perilously close distance, leaning into it as the trike comes to a halt with the outraged shriek of hot rubber on blacktop. Higgs remained motionless through it all, remains motionless now, studying you. You can feel his eyes through that gilded, ominous skull mask, and without a word you straighten, still seated on the trike, to meet his gaze head-on. 

“Been a while,” he finally says.

“Not long enough,” is your reply. His head tilts a little and you know without a doubt that he’s smiling, unseen.

“A part of you missed me,” he states, absolutely confident in _his _truth. “You think about me every day.”

There’s no disputing that, so you don’t. “What do you want this time?”

“Everything you have, Boots.” He steps closer, sliding a hand over the trike’s handles. You snatch yours away. “All you could possibly give.”

It takes a special kind of person, you think then, to ensure that every single word that falls from their mouth is calculated, with unerring precision, to deliver the maximum amount of unease, or rage, or sorrow. Higgs is that special kind of person. He’s a master at wielding words, to hurl them at all your weak spots, to set you instantly on edge.

“If we could just fucking skip all _this,_” you say tightly, fluttering your hand in his direction, “and get to the point, I’d appreciate it.”

He laughs. “What’s your hurry? Somewhere to go? Someone to see?” He sets a peculiar emphasis on that last question, one that you don’t like. He steps closer and it takes all of your willpower not to lean away from him.

“I just—”

“—want to be anywhere but near me. I know. Can’t say I really blame you, but maybe you’ll change your mind about that after you see what you need to see.”

_Doubtful_ , is what you’re thinking, and you’re sure he knows it too. You can’t see his expression but it doesn’t matter, because you’re familiar enough with him by now to know what kind of smirk he’s wearing, and you hate that fact. 

“Have the dreams started?” he asks abruptly. You say nothing, but can’t stop the way your hands fist against your thighs because you know what dreams he’s talking about. He reads your body language as well as he reads the unknowing nuance you give your words and from behind his mask comes a contemplative hum, half-satisfaction, half-regret.

“Can we just…” you say tiredly.

“Yes.” He gestures for you to get off the bike, so you walk it to the side of the road and park it before swinging your leg over. You face him expectantly, doing your best to hide your mounting anxiety and wondering why you’re even bothering to do so. When he approaches you’re unable to keep from edging backward, the bike hitting the backs of your legs. He reaches for you and your hand snaps out, clamping around his wrist.

“You’re going to show me something?” you say tightly.

“I am,” he says in that smiling voice, “but we need to be a bit closer first.”

“How the fuck—”

“Boots.” And he’s inserting himself into your personal place, disregarding entirely your hand laid flat on his chest, yanking his wrist from your grip and sliding one arm around around your back. He pulls you bodily into him and you’re mouth is open to snap at him but the world as you know disappears. Blackness swims over your vision and it feels as though time has snagged but you’re being pulled away from it. Abruptly it clears and you’re staring at the ground, no longer the black asphalt that had been underfoot previously but instead rock and dirt. You’re disoriented, nauseated, pressed still against Higgs’ chest but you lack the ability to push yourself away because your brain and your body are still trying to catch up with what’s happened.

“I’m going to be sick,” you manage to say, the words slurred, and hit your knees just as bile rushes up your throat. Higgs kneels at your side as you retch convulsively, your fingers clutching at the ground. He lays a hand on your back and you stiffen but are unable to say anything as you vomit yet again.

“It affects some people more than others,” he says. “You might get used to it in time.”

You never want to do it again. When you’re able to breathe without the urge to hurl, you lift your head and look around. As you’d expected, you’re no longer on the road outside of Port Knot. You’re on a ridge somewhere, free of any and all vegetation, and below you is the remains of an overpass. Tire tracks beneath it let you know that despite wear and lack of upkeep, it’s still a well-traveled road. Higgs stands, looking downward, and your eyes track toward whatever it is that’s caught his attention. Below, there’s a building leaning against a bluff — in ruins, of course — but it looks as though maybe it’s inhabited. Your assumption is proved correct when a man steps out of it and even from here you’re able to tell by his garb that he’s a Bridges employee.

“Sam, Sam, Sam,” Higgs says with peculiar fondness, “look at you. Right on time, as always.”

It doesn’t take much brainpower to figure out just who that man is standing below: Sam Porter Bridges. It has to be. His name has been hard to avoid of late, considering it’s his efforts that have extended the chiral network. Despite everything, your interest is firmly piqued and you get slowly to your feet, wiping at your mouth and grimacing at the sour taste of bile that still lingers in your mouth. Is this the ‘friend’ that Higgs mentioned the last time you were together? You know with certainty that Higgs is as much a friend of Porter Bridges as he is of you, which is to say not at all.

“Why are we here?” you ask.

He slants you a glance, his blue eyes dark beneath the mask. “I told you,” he chides, “there are things you need to see.”

_Like what? _ is what you’re on the verge of demanding but he’s already gone, vanishing from your side. You get to your feet, gaze still fixed on the man below, and are entirely unsurprised to see Higgs rematerialize right in front of him. Porter Bridges staggers back a step, clearly startled, and you watch dry-mouthed as Higgs begins his theatrics. His voice carries but you can’t make out the words and you have to fight back the urge to move closer, because you are certain that he’s yet again about to do something unpleasant. Besides, you acknowledge with no small amount of bitterness, there’s nothing you can do against him. He will unleash his particular brand of hell and maybe you’re a coward — probably you’re a coward — but you’re tired of being on the receiving end of it. Bridges’ most illustrious employee is on his own. 

It’s clear as you watch their interaction that Higgs unnerves Porter Bridges as much as he does you. True to form, the terrorist leader is being his invasive self, getting too close and too touchy, to which the other responds by leaning back or moving away. Curiosity tempered with dread gnaws at you; you want to know what’s being said. You want to know what makes Porter Bridges so integral to Higgs’ schemes. You hope he’s better equipped to deal with it all than you are.

It darkens abruptly. You look up to find clouds gathering, swollen with the promise of rain and very likely BTs. You contemplate trying to get away but discard the notion immediately. You were brought here for a reason and you’ll cooperate (reluctantly) because you’ve already learned you can’t outrun the mechanics of the death stranding. You hunker down into a crouch, pulling up your hood and tugging on your gloves, eyes fixed on what’s unfolding before you. Higgs has one arm extended upward as though he’s calling the rain from the sky, which he probably is. The air takes on a charge, not quite electric but something that raises the hair on your arms all the same. He’s pulling something big from the other side, something more than mere BTs. You don’t know how you know it, but you do, and you are proven correct second later as a dark form bounds up from the glossy blackness that blankets the ground around Higgs and Porter-Bridges. Your breath leaves you in a silent hiss, one hand rising to cover your mouth. The black thing looks almost leonine, moves with that particular predatory grace, possesses a writhing, inky mane. All feline similarities end there. Its head is chiral filigree, glinting even now, even in the pouring rain, and you watch as it halts beside Higgs, as he reaches up and touches it as he would a trusted pet.

Sam Porter Bridges, you think, might be a little fucked.

Higgs spreads both arms out to the sides —  _Just look what I’ve done now! Gaze upon my will given form! — _ takes a step backward, and disappears, leaving Porter Bridges to deal with creature. You get to your feet and back up a few feet, giving the bastard room to materialize but then you hear a crackling sound behind you. He loops his arm loosely around your neck, rests his head on your shoulder. You fantasize about elbowing him hard enough to break a rib but let it go because you’ve already gone one round with him and wound up flat on your back with BTs caressing you. Instead you stiffen your shoulders and stare ahead at the battle unfolding below. Your determination not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction is tested when he speaks, his words only a little muffled by the mask he still wears.

“So, what do you think?”

“Impressive,” you can’t help but say, because it is.

“Isn’t it?”

“A bit much, though.” You watch as the creature rears back on its hind legs before pouncing in Porter Bridges’ direction, watch as he dives to the side, narrowly evading it.

“No,” Higgs tells you, “it’s not. Not for him. Sam, well, he’s got all sorts of luck in his favor. And some weaponry the rest of the world lacks. He’ll be fine. Maybe not fine,” he amends a heartbeat later as the creature bats its victim with a paw, sending him flying, “but well enough. He’ll live.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because it’s what needs to be.”

You turn your head to look at him sidelong, frowning. Even though his face is covered you can still envision one corner of his mouth tugging upward as he elaborates, “It’s what  _has to _ happen.”

“Says who?”

“Says she,” is his infuriatingly vague answer. Your frown takes root and grows, becoming a scowl, and your attempt to turn your head back around is thwarted when he catches your chin in his fingertips. It’s only then you realize how close your faces are. There’s a flicker in his eyes and your breath catches; you exhale slowly a moment later as he brushes his thumb against your upper lip. You can’t look away from him and he knows it, his touch a mesmerizing back and forth that shouldn’t be happening here in the rain with the world’s most famous porter battling a beached thing not far away.

“Let’s go,” Higgs says after a time. You’re embarrassed to admit that you’re unsure if seconds or minutes have passed, hate that he’s capable of doing that to you. His hands are on your shoulder, turning you, tugging you, and you’re clasped against him just long enough for you to blink and then you’re transported once again. As before, you hit your knees, stomach roiling and as before, you begin to heave uncontrollably. You’re empty. All that comes up is a thin stream of watery bile.

“Sorry.”

You swipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, not at all surprised to see that it’s trembling. “You’re not.”

“I could be.”

You look up at him, masked and cloaked and cocky, and shake your head. “You don’t care about anything.”

His head falls back and he makes a sound that could be a laugh except it’s not. There’s a frayed edge to it, one that has you regarding him with confusion. He pulls the mask off his face and lets it go. It remains where he released it, suspended in midair, a golden skull observing this interaction between you both. Higgs drops to one knee in front of you and you’re confronted with his gaze, blue and direct and lined with black and carrying within it that shadowed hint of mania, controlled and leashed, that makes him such an incredibly unpredictable threat.

“The thing about caring, Boots, is that it’s not worth the time and effort. It always leads to disappointment or worse. I know it. You know it.”

“I don’t—”

“Of course you do.” He lifts both hands, fans his fingers out and presses them against the sides of your face. His touch is cold, even through his gloves. What you should do in this moment is tear yourself free, get up, walk away. But you don’t, because he won’t let you and what’s worse, a part of _you _won’t let you either. You’re ensnared by more than just his touch. His eyes are blazing a trail across the contours of your face as though he’s looking for something and whatever it is, you’re fervently hoping he doesn’t find it. Eventually his gaze fastens on yours and that’s when he speaks, repeating where he’d left off. “Of course you do. You learned a long time ago just what caring gets you. Your family taught you that lesson, didn’t they?”

It’s not so much a question as it is a statement. Denials race up your throat but they stay caged behind your teeth because to utter them would be a lie. He’s right. He knows it and you know it too. It seems like he’s waiting for you to speak, to say something in particular—to describe to him just how your childhood unfolded, an unhappy passage of years where you learned life’s hardest, cruelest lessons. He’ll be waiting a very long time, though, because even though he has you in his thrall—and you can’t deny that he does anymore—you will  _never _ speak of that. Perhaps your determination etches itself into the lines of your face because he exhales slowly, fingers dropping away as he shakes his head.

“Stubborn,” he remarks.

You don’t say anything, instead seizing the moment to look away from him and scan your surroundings. Now that you’re free to notice such things you hear a dull roar originating from somewhere behind him. The terrain is rocky crags and flat expanses until it drops suddenly away maybe a dozen feet from where you’re kneeling and suddenly you know where you are: the huge waterfall on the way to the farm. It’s not raining here and so you push your hood down even as you stand. You don’t look at Higgs as you step past him, heading toward the noise, and as you advance you see that you were correct: you are at the waterfall. You draw as close to the ledge as you’re comfortable being and stop, staring down at the ferocity of the water as it flows over the edge and falls into the river below. You know firsthand just how much power these waters have; once, a year ago or more, you’d tried to ford the river further up and failed miserably, an attempt that had led to you frantically chasing your cargo before it reached the falls. You retrieved some. The rest was claimed by these churning waters.

Higgs comes up beside you, still devoid his mask. A glance over your shoulder shows you it followed which is a tad unsettling to say the least. The two of you observe the waterfall in silence for a while until finally you open your mouth to ask what you’re doing here. Higgs grips you by the wrist, places the palm of his other hand across your brow, his expression suddenly and alarmingly sober. Your surroundings bleed away and you think perhaps you’ve been transported again but Higgs speaks and you don’t hear his voice aloud. You hear it in your mind, low and intense and intimate in a way that curdles your blood.

_Look. _

He removes his hand from your face and you obey his directive, your eyes dropping to the ground at your feet. You stare blankly, your brain not quite ready to interpret what you’re seeing even though you’ve seen it before. The two of you are standing knee deep in corpses and as you lift your head in reluctant increments you realize the corpses blanket the ground for as far as you’re able to see. Above you the sky is a roiling mixture of greenish-black clouds and as they swirl you catch glimpses of an orange sky behind them. Every now and then a rift opens far above with a crackling far louder and far more quaking than lightning and from it plummets more bodies, graceless forms that wheel about until they strike the ground. You are standing in the middle of one of your new nightmares and the fact that you are awake makes it so much worse. You suck in a deep breath and immediately wish you hadn’t as the smell of decay is overpowering. You can  _taste _ it and your poor stomach rebels immediately. You start breathing hard through your mouth in an effort to waylay yet another vomiting session, dimly aware as you do so that you’re clutching Higgs by the upper arms.  _Why? _ you demand of him, shaking him a little in your distress.  _Why are we here?_

_Watch. _

The scenery changes rapidly, flickers of things too terrible to comprehend but you’ve seen them before while lost in these dreams. Pandemics, genocides, starvation, radiation — supervolcanic eruptions, solar flares, tectonic catastrophes — every awful death possible is paraded before your eyes on a scale that defies belief. What you’re so unwillingly viewing is all possible scenarios — and there are so very many — of extinction for mankind.

_And they’re all inevitable. _

You’d closed your eyes to stop seeing but you’d seen anyways. You open them again, look at Higgs and find he’s wearing an expression you suspect is alien to him. His eyes are narrowed, mouth pinched, and he’s staring at you with blind intensity. You realize he’s struggling to deal with the grim, ominous changes in scenery just as you are. He lifts his hands, grips you by the shoulders, his fingers squeezing.

_Everything you’re seeing has happened. Is happening. Will happen. _

A sudden burst of light whips your head around and you see a mushroom cloud burgeoning in the distance, containing within it all the violent hues of the sun. A searing blast of air heralds the shockwave, igniting the air trapped in your throat and lungs and you scream soundlessly as you’re incinerated from the inside out. You cling to Higgs and he to you, both dying, both burning, until suddenly you’re not. The moment passes and you’re breathing too fast, too shallowly, prying your eyes open to see that the environment has changed yet again. The corpses surrounding you three and four deep have been blackened and charred and now the prevailing scent is that of burnt organic matter and it’s just as bad as the smell of rot.

The dreams you’d had had been horrible but they’d only been brief glimpses, a mere prelude to this reality you now occupy with Higgs.  _We were never meant to exist_ , he tells you. He’s half-supporting you now. Your knees had sagged and you’ve buried your face against his chest in an attempt to escape this, all of this.  _We were an error. The universe doesn’t suffer errors. All you’ve seen in the dreams, all you’ve seen here — it’s all been an effort and will be an effort to rectify that mistake. We are doomed to die and the longer we live, the worse the end will be._

_The death stranding, _ you choke in sudden, miserable comprehension. 

_Yeah. _ He’s got one arm around you now, his chin resting on the top of your head. In any other time, in any other place, you would be fighting him ferociously, hating his nearness and his presumptions that led him to touch you. But here… here you welcome it. It’s a balm, as fucked up as that is, something that soothes against the horrendous things you’ve seen and learned.  _Every time one extinction event fails, another begins. It would be far better, Boots, if we were to die off sooner rather than later. _

You want to disagree with him. You know you should. But after all you’ve seen and felt, knowing that the worst of it is still waiting in the wings…

He takes pity on you, or he can’t bear it himself anymore, or maybe this is the sum of what he wanted you to see, because it is suddenly and mercifully over. The charred corpses are gone. The sky above is blue. The air smells clean and fresh. The roar of the waterfall is audible. You are released from the grips of the living nightmare and you shove him away, reeling from the absurdity of being in one reality and then another, caught between the unfathomable, insane urges to either dissolve into sobs or burst into laughter. You do a bit of both, as it turns out, sinking to your knees and doubling over, conscious of the way your mouth is twisting in a terrible, terrible smile, of the tears that are spattering against your thighs. Despite the shitty hand you’d been dealt earlier in life you’d been laboring under the belief that it would all get better someday, eventually. It had to, right? It had to because nobody ever wants to think about it getting worse. But that’s the thing—you’re living in the worst case scenario now. You are just one of hundreds of millions aberrant things that aren’t supposed to be here and every day you’ve lived has been a mistake, a cosmic error. You were never meant to be. You think, as you lift your hands to your aching head, that maybe it’s not such a mystery why Higgs is the way he is anymore.

He’s standing in front of you. Without lifting your head you scrape out a few words, your voice as empty and hopeless as it has ever been. “Fuck you for doing this to me.”

“You would have figured it out on your own, eventually. We all do, those of us with DOOMS. Some of us don’t handle it well, though.” He touches two fingers to his temple, miming a gunshot. “I did you a favor. I spared you having to reach the moment of realization on your own. I wish someone had done that for me.”

You think about that, hands clenched in your hair, eyes fixed unseeing on the ground beneath you. Tears are sliding down your cheeks and off your chin rapidly but there’s none of that pressure in your eyes that accompanies normal crying. It’s all just so… hollow. Meaningless. A empty reaction that should be anything but. You think about what he’s just said and something inside you fractures. You can almost hear it, a crack like that of ice during the spring thaw, a spreading break that starts in your soul and ends in your heart. You are on your feet without really realizing it. You’re attacking him. You’re lashing out at him, one hand fisted, the fingers of the other curved into claws. You shove him. You kick at him. You even try to bite him. You are going to lose the war but there are a few battles you claim victory on, raking bloody lines into his neck, catching him low in the gut with a lucky punch. You are frenzy and fury because you are beset with the kind of fear and despair that no mortal should ever know. You are well and truly broken, and he has done this to you. It ends with you flat on your ass, glaring up at him as you try to breathe through snot and tears and a tightness in your throat that’s like a vise. He could have ended it with more violence. He could have hurt you too. That he didn’t makes it even more awful, somehow.

“You’re starting to get it,” he tells you in a dangerously gentle tone.

“Fuck you.”

He inclines his head, rolls a shoulder. “Yeah.”

You weep, bringing your knees up and tucking your head between them. Minutes or hours or seconds pass; you can’t tell and it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, which is also the motto you should probably adopt given your new perspective on the world. You weep until you’re dry and even then you don’t move. Your body hurts. You suspect some of that pain is spiritual, but when you finally stir its your muscles that protest the most. It’s almost dark. You get stiffly to your feet. Higgs is still standing where he was when you’d started your meltdown, waiting you out with aggravating, bewildering patience. He’s got his mask on again, a gilded study of Death’s visage.

“My trike,” you say in a voice very much like a croak. When he’s silent, you insist, “Take me back to it.”

He reaches for you and you don’t flinch. When it’s over you sway but don’t fall, stubbornly swallowing several times in succession to keep the urge to puke at bay. There’s your trike, parked where you left it, a little rusted from whatever timefall showers fell upon it during your time away. Your strides as you approach it are stilted, unsteady. You stop in front of it, staring down at it, wondering just what the actual fuck you are supposed to do next. Keep on living? Hop on the trike and just ride it in one direction until… until what?

“What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” you ask him without turning around.

“Live.”

Your laughter flies out of you, loud and grating. “Until you decide it’s time I don’t?”

Because, see—that’s the other thing you discovered, trapped in the nightmare with him. He’s got a plan to end it all. He didn’t tell you about it and you never saw it, but you know. You  _know,_ the same way you know the sun is up and the ground is down, the same way you now know what it means to be the very definition of a mistake. It’s why he is what he is, why he does what he does. The end is very fucking nigh, and he’s doing his best to aid everyone in meeting theirs. 

He affirms all of this with one word, uttered casually. “Yeah.”

“Maybe you should do me a favor,” you tell him, turning. “Maybe you should speed up the schedule. Take me out now.”

“No, Boots,” he says, shaking his head like you’re a child incapable of comprehending a simple rule. “No can do. Not yet. I still want you around.”

He has said this before and you still don’t get it. It’s not love. Infatuation, maybe? Whatever it is, it’s fucking stupid, particularly given what you now know. “I don’t understand you,” you say, hating how weak and insubstantial you sound. “What’s the fucking point? You just proved to me there is none.”

He makes a humming noise, almost contemplative and probably mocking. It would infuriate you if you weren’t feeling so devoid of… everything. You’ve lost something indefinable, something you didn’t know you needed to simply feel  _right. _ You aren’t the person you were hours ago. You’re sundered. 

“Go to South Knot,” he directs you. “Get a room. Rest. Get up in the morning. It’ll feel off—it’ll always feel off, from here to the end, but you’ll adapt. It’s what we’re good at, as a species: adapting.”

“Adapt,” you say flatly. “And if I don’t? If I can’t?”

“You can,” he says with easy, and in your opinion, misplaced confidence. He takes a step closer. “I knew you’d be able to. That’s part of why…” he lifts a hand, flips it back and forth between the two of you.

“If I don’t?” you persist.

“Then you’ll break. You’ll fall apart. I’ll put you down if you do,” he adds, softly and frighteningly reassuring, “but I won’t need to.”

“Is that what happened to you?” you unwisely ask. “Did you break?”

He shook his head. “Not from DOOMS. I already told you that. My daddy broke me. I broke him.” It’s like he moves without you realizing it because he’s suddenly right there in front of you. His hands lift, fasten around your upper arms. You don’t bother trying to shake him off. There’s no point. “That’s how I survived the dreams—I was already a little broken. Just like you. What happened down there in that bunker prepared you. Hardened you. That’s why you’ll be okay.”

That laugh comes from you again, humorless and rough. You hate the sound of it. “I am the furthest thing from okay.”

“It feels that way, yeah. It will for a while, but you’ll get used to it.”

_You’ll get used to it. _ What a terrible thing to say—getting used to  _this _ is not something anything should ever have to experience. “Go to South Knot,” he repeats. “Get a room. Rest. I’ll find you later.”

_I don’t want you to, _ is what you’re thinking, but also a part of you feels the opposite because in all of this whole, entire, shattered world he is the only person who understands what you are currently feeling. It’s by design, you know— _his _ design. This was what he intended, to push you over a brink that he himself has fallen over, to render you vulnerable and empty in ways that only he can understand. You are reliant on him now in all the worst, fucked up ways. Anyone else you speak with, interact with, will be set apart from you by merit of all the things they don’t know. They are living their lives, blissfully oblivious to the travesty that is life on this planet. To stay sane, to feel some semblance of normal, you will need Higgs’ presence. It was a clever trap he laid, you can admit to yourself—clever and cruel and a little insane, all the hallmarks of his presence, and there was no reality where you wouldn’t have blundered into it, naive as you were. 

He abruptly jerks you closer to him, tilting his head just a little and you only have a fraction of a second to wonder:  _what? _ And then there is cold metal pressed against your lips—Higgs is kissing you, mask to mouth, bizarre and terrifying but not entirely unexpected. He draws back, his blue eyes unwavering from behind the mask. 

“It’s just you and me now, Boots. Us against the rest of it. There’s more to it, of course—it’s not all what you think. There are some perks, some things I’ll teach you things to make it easier.”

_Please, _ you think, and simultaneously:  _Don’t. _

He steps away, his hands sliding down your arms before falling away. You instantly feel bereft. Higgs is all the despicable things he his but he’s also the only other whose brain has been overrun with the knowledge of the how and the why of the death stranding. You are seized with an urge to reach out to him, to catch his hand and cling to him, and it takes far more willpower than you like to subdue that urge. You will never find comfort from any other living being except for him, as much as you hate him, as much as you fear him. He’s watching you closely, likely aware of the inner battle you’re waging with yourself. After a moment he takes another step away and you can’t help the question that escapes you, or the curiosity that drives it.

“Where are you going?”

“To check up on Sam. Gotta make sure he’s not too banged up.” His eyes crinkle and you can perfectly envision his grin, much to your irritation. “Though I personally wouldn’t mind if he was.”

“Why does it matter if he is?”

“He’s still got some things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Why all the interest, Boots?” He cocks his head to one side. He knows exactly why you’re asking these questions. He says nothing more, waiting for you to piece it all together, to figure out why someone like him would trouble with someone like that. The answer isn’t immediately clear but the method is.

“You’re using him.”

“_We’re _using him,” he corrects, and you remember before how he’d mentioned a nameless she. Apparently satisfied that you’ve reached the realization you were meant to, he says, “Stop being so stubborn and just do what I said. Get to town, get a room, and rest. You won’t dream tonight.”

He says it with such certainty. He’s probably right, because you won’t need to dream given that reality as you know it has become its own nightmare. You’re alive and breathing and standing before a waterfall with no BTs around but the truth that none of this was meant to exist—and, in short order, will cease to—has you trapped within layers of convoluted comprehension, all of them horrible. Higgs backs another step, lifts a hand and waves before vanishing. In his absence you feel a wave of horror roll over you because you’re alone now—you’re alone and you are physically and mentally staggered beneath the onslaught of what he forced you to see, what he’s forced you to know. You’re not strong enough to endure this alone.

That’s why he chose you.


	7. Fallout after fact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been five-ish months since I updated this and I have nothing to say for myself other than I got caught up in another fandom. If you're still here, bless you for waiting for me to get my shit together. If you're new to the story, welcome aboard. I _will_ finish this. 
> 
> **A note of warning:** I said all this in the tags (and also in one of the other chapters) but just to cover my ass: there is nothing even remotely similar to a healthy relationship in this fic. There's violence in this chapter, probably will be more in chapters to come. Please considered yourselves warned.

The water in the shower is on the verge of going cold. Eventually you’re going to have to get up, but you can’t, not yet. So you stay huddled where you are, in the corner just out of the direct reach of the water’s spray. Your legs had carried you this far but proved no longer up to the task as, once the water began to flow, the enormity of what you’d just witnessed and learned rolled over you yet again. 

You’d done as Higgs had told you — gone back to South Knot, got a room. He’d also told you to rest, but you’re not certain you’ll ever be able to do that again. A full night’s sleep seems laughable considering the sundry of nightmares that are waiting in the fringes of your mind, locked and loaded and ready to fire. 

Minutes pass. The water drops to a temperature that is uncomfortable. Your shivering increases, your teeth knocking together, shoulders aching with the force of your shuddering. You have to talk yourself into getting up and when you do, your movements are ungainly, clumsy, your muscles sore and stiff from stress and a long period of sitting just as you had been. You turn the shower off, open the door, grab the towels hanging nearby, draping one over your head and wrapping the other around you. You’re still cold and heedless of the wet trail you leave behind you make your way to the bed and take a seat on it. 

Your face feels excessively damp. Tears? Water? You’re unable to tell. Everything about you feels _off,_ as though you are an impostor in your own skin. This is what the truth has done to you. You are undone, fragmented, tottering between the reality you’d known and Higgs’ domain of irrefutable facts. You can’t go back to what once was, and below you yawns a chasm of inescapable despair, but to swing to the other side, to accept Higgs’ rules of existence—

There is no happy ending for you, for anyone. The lucky ones will perish within a year or two, safely ensconced within their subterranean domiciles, willfully ignorant of the world above and secure in the particular kind of bliss that ignorance grants them. The rest of you are well and truly fucked, but still you envy them, those who don’t know the certainties and absolutes. There are many reasons to hate Higgs — his machinations, his words, his fixation on you—but the most unforgivable is that he deliberately exposed you to all that he knew. He reigns in a certain kind of hell here on earth, has forcibly recruited you into joining his imperium and now here you are, dripping and desolate on a bed in a room in South Knot, bereft of a reason to continue to exist.

You make a half-hearted effort to dry your hair and give up. You lack the energy and motivation to do anything other than lay on your side, bringing your legs up onto the bed, letting the wet towel fall from your fingers to land in a heap on the floor. You’ve left a wet imprint on the bed and you’re still cold but your coveralls and clothing are lying in their own crumpled pile near the shower. Your pack is by the door where you’d dropped it and it’s got a change of clothes inside but you can’t get up. You don’t want to. You want to stay here and close your eyes and never wake up, because waking up means you have to remember everything all over again and that thought makes you so incredibly, unthinkably weary. With your head on the now-damp pillow, you reach down with one hand, fumble for the blankets, and pull them over yourself. You close your eyes and the blackness stares back, rife with the promise of the impending end. 

Hours pass. You remain awake, only moving when your body dictates it is time to do so. You’d laid down with the lights on, but a simple press of your thumb to the control switch built into the headboard lets you dim the interior. Doesn’t help, though. Still can’t sleep, still can’t sleep, until suddenly you do. Deep sleep, though not without dreams, but they are vague and formless and you drift through them without fear, without sorrow—a modicum of peace you will be denied in your every waking moment from now on.

**.x.**

It’s the sound of water that wakes you. Your eyes open, blink, close again until the cadence of the water changes.

Someone is in the shower.

_Who?!—_your exhausted brain blares, but then it answers itself. It can _only_ be one person, and when you prop yourself up on one elbow to look in that direction you are proven correct. Higgs is in the shower, his back to you, his clothing in a pile atop yours, the gold of his cape glinting even in the dim overhead light. You stare at him for a few seconds, still clouded in the fog of sleep, before you realize that you are naked but for the uncomfortably damp towel and only slightly-less damp blankets. You quickly stand, rearrange the towel and tighten it, are on the verge of darting toward your pack when you realize he’s turned around. He’s watching you. 

The fortuitous build of the shower stall spares you from glimpsing full nudity, but you are still unable to move, caught in the snare of his gaze as you so often are. Water streams down his face, over his shoulders, drips from his chin. His blue eyes are unblinking, the dark liner surrounding them running in straight, dark lines down his cheeks. Suds from soap slide down the glass, clump up near the drain, and still watching you he raises a hand and runs it through his hair to finish rinsing. He thrusts his chin toward the door—toward your pack—with a half-smile, wordlessly telling you to do what you’d intended to do before he turns back around. You’re kneeling by your pack a flashing second later, digging through it with jerky movements for anything you can put on quickly that will provide you greater sense of security than the towel. You find the oversized shirt you usually sleep in, wrestle it on, are looking for bottoms when the sound of the shower cuts off.

“Best hurry and get decent, Boots,” he says, his back still to you. “I’m coming out in five.”

Your mouth twists and you let your pack drop before stalking back to the bed and taking up position yet again beneath the covers. As usual, he’s got you well and thoroughly trapped — you’ve already booked the room using your credentials, which means you’ll be unable to get another one. The awful sense of emptiness you’d known only a short time ago is replaced by anger, and you’re twisted up in knots because a part of you feels as though you should be grateful to him for that—except that he’s the reason for that emptiness. It’s a cyclical churn of emotion that’s wearing you down, is _breaking_ you, and he’s in the center driving it all.

You avert your face as he exits the shower, lying down again, burrowing as far as you can without your feet slipping off the end. Now you feel ridiculous, which of course was probably his intent, and it pisses you off even more. You listen as he proceeds with his after shower ritual, which includes brushing his teeth and something involving rustling fabric (getting dressed, hopefully) and you are hoping beyond hope that he packs up and gets the fuck out. Which, of course, he does not do. Instead you hear the soft padding of bare feet approaching the bed. Every single muscle in your body tenses.

The mattress dips. You exhale, a thin stream of pure ire expelled through your nostrils. More movement and you grit your teeth, because he’s clearly stretching out next to you. He stops moving and seconds tick past. 

“You trying to wish me into non-existence?”

“I’ve already tried,” is your stony response. “Many times.”

His chuckle is low and soft. “I just bet you have.”

Your fingers dig into your pillow with such force that your knuckles ache. If you thought you had even the remotest chance of succeeding, you’d try and smother him. You let your anger swell, wash over you, cling to it because at least you’re feeling something. You jerk into a sitting position, half-turn to look down at him. He’s utterly relaxed, lying on his back, hands behind his head. You’re relieved to see that while he’s shirtless, he’s at least wearing pants. That his state of undress was another premeditated effort to throw you off balance is irrefutable. 

“You couldn’t give me _one fucking day,”_ you bite out. “You couldn’t leave me alone for just one day after—after—”

_After showing me all of…_ that. _After forcing me to share it with you. After removing any and all reasons for living. After making me feel—making me_ realize_—that nothing,_ nothing _fucking matters any more…_

You’re not looking at him. Instead your eyes are focused on your hands, which are violently wringing the folds of the blanket in your lap. He says nothing for a few beats, and then:

“You don’t want to be alone.”

“I do,” you reply instantly. 

“You don’t.”

He’s right and you both know it. It infuriates you even more and you twist the blanket so hard that you feel a twinge of pain in your knuckles. 

“You don’t want to be alone with what you’re thinking,” he says, “or what you know now, ‘cause it’s too much. Feels like you’ll drown in it.”

He shifts. You feel his fingers at your elbow, running lightly up your arm. You shrug in a fruitless effort to dislodge his touch. He continues, “I was there once, remember? I had to deal with it, too.”

_And look at what you became,_ you think, afraid to say it aloud. _Look what it did to you. _

“It’s gonna be harder if you try to do it alone,” he remarks, his fingers on your shoulder now, gently squeezing, “and you know that, don’t you? You know that but that’s not gonna stop you from trying. This… stubbornness you’ve got, this need to fight even when you know there’s no point… that’s what I like about you. You’ll always try to go down swinging.”

He’s wrong, though. _That_ fight’s been sapped right out of you. Oh, you’ll fight _him,_ yes, of course you will, but in the broader scheme… well, what’s left to fight for? A few months that have only the very dubious potential for anything even remotely resembling joy before Higgs’ grand scheme comes to completion and eradicates all human life? 

“There’s no point,” you say tiredly, not really an answer, but words that apply to the situation anyways.

“Does there need to be?” 

“Of course there does!” you blare, reaching around with your other arm and yanking his hand away from you. “That’s—that’s the whole fucking reason for _living!_ You work toward something, you set goals, you—”

“—fail miserably,” he interjects, “realize it was alllllll just some bullshit.” You open your mouth to rage at him, but he presses his finger against your mouth. You jerk away so forcefully that you nearly topple off the bed. “How you gonna argue this, Boots, when we both know the truth of it? I figured the meaning of my life out the day I killed my daddy. And you… well, I bet you figured yours out in those dark days locked away in that bunker. Life is nothing but different kinds of miseries knotted together. Some are real bad, yeah, others not so much and that’s because when it’s easier to swallow, it’s easier to keep plodding forward without bothering to really _see.”_

He sits up suddenly, a movement that puts his face in close proximity to yours. His hands fasten around your upper arms to prevent your retreat and when he speaks again his voice is low, intense. “You’re free of that now—the drudgery, the tedium. _I_ gave you that. It was a gift.”

“All you did was show me that nothing matters!””

“Most of it doesn’t,” he corrects you, “some of it does.”

Your cry is one of mingled rage and frustration. _“Fuck_ you!”

“Boots,” is all he says, a disappointed exhale, before he jerks you toward him. One of his hands cups the back of your head, pulls it to his shoulder and even as you pummel at him with your fists you realize that he’s offering comfort—his own fucked up version of it, at least. You _don’t_ want it but also you _do,_ and it’s a dichotomy that is tearing you apart.

“Relax,” he commands, his voice a whisper in your ear that burgeons into a pained grunt as you land a blow to his abdomen. His hold transitions from gentle to markedly less so as he shifts, as his fingers catch your chin in an iron hold. You’re assailed with memories of just what he can do and it’s almost enough to stop you, almost, until you see that creases at the corners of his mouth, the first faint beginnings of a smile.

He’s _amused,_ because of course he is.

All your mind needed was a gentle nudge to lose complete and total control over the chaos that’s consumed you, and this was a shove. You tear yourself free from his hold with such violence that you have the distinct pleasure of seeing his eyes widen in the moments before you shove him with a strength born of wild, helpless desperation. He falls backward, nearly topples off but manages to catch himself by gripping the cubby at the head of the bed. You twist around, lash out with both feet, catch him in the side and he loses his grip, dropping to the floor with a heavy thud. In the silence that follows all you can here is the furious pounding of your own heart and then, a few seconds later, the sound of his breathless laughter.

_Fuck. This._

You try to get to your feet, a task made difficult by the blankets that have wound themselves around you during the course of this little interaction, and by the time you wrench free you are a panting, red-faced mess. You lurch toward your pack with the full and only intent of leaving the room, getting aboveground, getting away from _him._ You’ll spend the night outside if you have to. 

You’ve got your pack straps in one hand when you hear, “Don’t think so,” from behind you, and then he slings an arm around your waist and hauls you backward. The struggle you put up is a ferocious one, enough so that he’s breathing just as hard as you are. His tactics change and he uses his own weight to abruptly swing you around, tossing you ungently onto the bed. Your pack is trapped beneath you, your hand still knotted in the straps. Teeth bared, you attempt to wriggle yourself into a position to kick at him, but he grabs the trailing end of the sheet, swiftly wraps it around your legs and then traps them within the cage of his own as he places a knee on either side of your thighs.

“Always gotta go down swinging,” he repeats between rapid breaths. “I think that might be the part of you I like best.”

The fight to free your fingers from your tangled pack straps is maddening, made even more so because your arm is twisted beneath you, and your anger transitions into a swift surge of fear as he leans over. You try to rise; he moves up your body until that’s an impossibility. He grabs your free hand in both of his, forcibly uncurls your clenched fingers before pressing your palm against his chest, splaying it flat. You attempt to wrench it away but he keeps it there, his grip so strong it’s nearly bruising.

You’re bewildered, flustered, furious but unable to voice any of it. The silence that builds between you is one you can feel, pressing against you, immobilizing you. Against your palm is the coolness of his skin and beneath it you can detect the accelerated thrumming of his heart. 

_“This_ is all we’ve got,” he tells you in a voice made rough by exertion. “This is all we are. Just skin and bones and what’s inside. I'm _just like you_, Boots, except that my DOOMS is a little more advanced.”

That’s an understatement of epic proportions and you’re more than willing—nay, _eager_—to tell him so, to spit out your heated disagreement. He cuts you off with a swift, violent shake of his head. You try to sit up but he shoves you back down with his free hand, keeps your palm pressed tight against his chest with the other. He leans down until his face is just above yours, his breath flowing warm across your mouth. 

“I’m _all_ you’ve got,” he whispers. “There’s nobody else. You can try and tell others but they won’t care or they’ll pretend you’re crazy, because they can’t handle what we know. In all this big wide world I am the _only_ one who understands you… the only one who ever will. You need to think real long and real hard about what life would be like without me now that you know what you know.”

“I won’t be alive much longer anyway,” you bite out, “Right?”

He smiles. It’s an expression that captivates you because it’s a little broken, a little crooked, a little dark. “Nobody will,” he says.

“Then do me a fucking favor, Higgs! Kill me right now!”

You’re shouting at him, imprisoned by his body, by the knowledge you possess that you would give anything to be ignorant of, by your own tempest of thought and emotion. You want his fingers around your throat, squeezing until you can’t _feel_ anymore—you want him gone, vanished, erased from existence… except that would mean you’d be alone, alone and aware that all life was never meant to be, that the universe will keep causing horrific events like the death stranding until all that remains is an empty, silent void. And that’s the crux—that’s the truth he speaks now: you can’t endure alone. You need him as much as you hate him, as much as you fear him. It’s a realization you’ve been fighting to keep at bay, a realization that refuses to be ignored any longer, and it effectively extinguishes the fire in your veins. 

He feels you going limp beneath him, nods approvingly. “It’s just us,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. Beneath your palm his heart has slowed; your fingers twitch as you suddenly become aware of the intimacy of this pose. His fingers slide away from your wrist and he shifts his weight, presses his lips against your brow before he climbs off of you and rolls onto his back on the other side of the bed. You remain where you, staring up at the ceiling unseeing for a long while as you try to remember what it was like to be able to think without being ruled by this awful sense of hopelessness. Eventually you have to move, freeing the arm that had been pinned beneath you, wrapping it around your waist as you hunch over.

“You chose me because… why?” you ask dully, trying to make sense of something that is without any. “Because the end is near, because you don’t want to go through it alone?”

“Yes.”

“You could have—there are others…”

“We’ve talked about this before. You caught my interest. Don’t know why. Just did.”

“What about…” you have to pause and swallow. The conflict and the stress from, well, everything has made your mouth uncomfortably dry. “What about _her?_ The one you mentioned? Why not her?”

He makes a sound somewhere between a hum and a sigh. “She’s got her uses. This ain’t one of them.”

“The soldiers? At the camp?”

“They already have their roles to fill.”

You dig the heel of your hand into your forehead as though you could knock reality into some semblance of rightness again. “You did this,” you say needlessly. “You did this to me.”

“I did,” he concurs easily. “You’re going backward over all of this. You need to start looking ahead.”

“Ahead to what?” you demand, desolate incredulity raising sharpening your tone. “There is _nothing.”_

“Because that’s all you’re choosing to see.”

Your arms ache with the urge to strike him but you’ve gone that avenue before and wound up… _here._ Every decision you make against him has only and will only impact you negatively. He’s right—he’s all you’ve got and it’s all by his design. He commands chaos and uncertainty as a god might, wielding them with impunity to indulge in his vagaries. And in the midst of it all he captured you, hooking you with one seemingly innocuous question and then constructing around you a cage wrought of discordant deceit and honesty. You have _nowhere_ to go—there’s _no_ safe place. You could go to ground again and hide away from the world but the weight of knowing reality for what it is would eat at you, wear you down until you fall apart completely, until you seek a swifter, more determinate end than what awaits. But he would never just let you vanish—no, he’s already made that clear. _This_ is what life is for you now. You either accept it or…

Your sigh is nearly inaudible. Since first encountering Higgs you’ve known exhaustion born from panic, from fear, from frustration. This weariness that rolls over you now is a different sort and it pulls at your bones, weighs at your soul. You give into it, lying down on your side with your back to him, pushing your head into the pillow and closing your eyes. Sleep is one of the last few bastions of peace available to you, is perhaps the only one. Unsurprisingly, it proves to be a long time coming. Behind you Higgs is silent. You try not to move but can’t help but shift every now and then while you will your obstinate brain into shutting down.

Eventually his voice intrudes into your tired thoughts. “There’ll be dreams.”

He’s confirming what you’d already suspected. He’s also baiting you into further interaction. The threat of impending nightmares is enough to make you overlook that, however, and so you ask, “Can you stop them?”

“No.” Your heart sinks. You’re not ready to endure those dreams yet again. A moment later he adds, “But I can make it easier.”

“How?”

“Turn around.”

You can hear the hint of a smile in his voice and close your eyes in resignation, because you’re going to do as he asks anyway. You roll onto your other side, brows drawn together in glare. He’s got his head pillowed on one arm and yes, he’s smiling, eyes crinkling, the expression of an affable good ol’ boy. If only his considerable charisma wasn’t accompanied by all the rest, by the capriciousness, the malevolence, the insidious ribbon of insanity that resides beneath it all. He lifts his other arm, drapes it over your waist with exaggerated slowness. You stiffen.

“I can’t stop them,” he repeats, “but I can wake you from them. I can be here.”

You study him, glare softening as you realize that he’s offering you comfort once again. A sudden longing for it roars through you, this basic human need for human contact, because it has been long years since you’ve known another’s embrace, because you have never felt more alone or afraid. You shouldn’t want it and in a perfect world you wouldn’t, but nothing concerning this reality is perfect. Never has been, never will be. All you’ve got is this: yourself and Higgs. Right and wrong no longer applies to something this broken. So when he pulls you closer you let him, ducking your head so that you don’t have to look at him even as you allow your body to press gently against his. You’re tired enough to focus on his warmth, on the sense of security you derive from his arm around you. Some distant part of you is aware of how ludicrous it is, to feel safe in the embrace of the one who’s haunted and harried you for months, but that no longer matters now. Life is what it’s become. 

It takes a while for the tension to seep from your body, but it does so in increments, breath by breath. You are able to relax utterly, completely, nestled close to him, and then you sleep.

**.x.**

Higgs keeps his word. He pulls you from the bloodied waters that swirl over your head, from the hundreds of bodies that float in it, and the transition from nightmare to wakefulness is so abrupt that you can do nothing but lay where you are, stunned and breathing hard. You’re drenched in sweat and your body feels oddly stiff and sore, as though you really had been fighting against a powerful current in an attempt to get your head above the waves. Gradually you become aware of Higg’s touch, of the slow way he threads his fingers through your hair and brushes his thumb along your cheek. Such tenderness from him seems utterly incongruous.

“I never had this,” he says, husky from sleep. “There was nobody to stop me from dreaming.”

Those words tug at some part of you, even though they shouldn’t. The thought of suffering through all of _this_ on your own is just too much and the fact that he had to… it explains some things. You don’t want to look at him but you do anyway, turning your head in order to do so. He’s propped up on one elbow and there’s an element to the way he’s regarding you now that’s both new and strange. He seems… almost protective, and uncertain, too. As though aware of your observations his eyes flutter closed and when they open again his expression is far more familiar, smilingly glib and self-assured.   
  
“Not so bad, is it?” he queries teasingly. You pointedly turn your head back in the other direction, but his fingers along your cheek pull it right back around. “Look at me,” he orders when you refuse to meet his gaze, and you obey with weary reluctance. “Would you rather be alone?” he asks.

There’s no point in giving any other answer other than the truth. The time for that is past. You shake your head.

“You understand now?” he softly persists. “For us there is nothing else but each other. You can hate me, you can resent me… you can and will keep fighting me, won’t you?—but this is how it is now. There’s no going back.”

He’s waiting for some kind of agreement from you, his fingertips still pressed against your cheek. You nod. 

His head drops. Your breath hitches. You know what’s coming. 

Higgs kisses you, and you let it happen.

**.x.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's reviewed. I read every single one even if I'm not actively working on this, and they're what prompted me to start working on this again. I appreciate all the feedback!


	8. Thresholds

It’s been such a long time since you’ve experienced basic human intimacy. Maybe that’s why, when Higgs’ mouth covers yours with a gentle insistence that you know belies his intentions, you respond to him. Existence to you has narrowed to a mere sliver of what it was, and all that dwells within these narrow confines are innumerable, endless calvaries. So you let him kiss you, yes, because you crave the sensation, and the knowledge that there is another body in this desolate, ravaged world that is close to yours, that wants to be close to yours. Your lips part beneath his and his tongue delves, slides over your own. You revel in his warmth, the heat of his body above yours, the simpleness of touch that has become such an alien concept in this broken world. You know what Higgs is, know  _ who _ he is—in this moment, splintered and numb as you are, you find that you no longer care.

His fingers ghost along the line of your jaw and glide down the column of your neck before slipping around to your nape. They stop there, hovering over the same spot he touched before to ease the pain of your DOOMS. He lifts his head away from yours, pale gaze shadowed with intentions that have your breath hitching with every inhale. He presses his fingertips against that spot again but what happens now is very different—you are flooded with a sense of euphoria and it ripples forth from the point of contact, heat and relaxation and a clashing surge of lust that has you panting. Your grip on his arms tightens. You watch as a smile of pure masculine satisfaction crosses his face before his head drops again. His kiss this time is more aggressive, more demanding, his teeth closing on your bottom lip and tugging. His fingers are still at the base of your neck and you are still experiencing the exhilaration that comes from that touch and you feel as though you are in free fall—there is no beginning to this, no end, simply an elation that spirals in all directions.

He removes his fingers from your neck and the rush fades, but it’s bolstered again by the feeling of his hand skimming along your shoulder and then, a beat later, over the swell of your breast. It’s a light touch, fleeting, but it sears you through the thin fabric of your shirt. You want him. You are bound to him,  _ knotted  _ to him, and each of those ties is made combustible by the strength of the emotions he brings to life within you. You want to ignite those ties, be engulfed in the resulting flames. His lips are moving upward along the line of your jaw until they close around the lobe of your ear. He starts sucking lightly and it plucks a chord within you. You gasp.

He hums approvingly in your ear. His fingers are entwined with strands of your hair at the back of your head, and the other hand rests now splayed out along your ribs, his thumb limning patterns that draw closer to your breast but never quite touch. He’s teasing you, and you know it, and you’ll willingly subject yourself to it over and over again because this is a  _ need– _

“Not yet,” he whispers after rolling your earlobe between his teeth. “Not here.”

He pushes himself away, collapsing onto his back beside you. You manage, just barely, to halt the urge to reach for him. You lay where you are, close your eyes, will your breathing to slow, all the while feeling your face flush from frustration and shame. 

“Soon, though,” he assures you, threads of amusement and regret and promise woven into his soft tone. He reaches out, strokes your cheek with the backs of his knuckles. You keep your eyes closed. He moves closer, settles his arm around your waist once again. Your breathing gradually slows. So does his. You focus on the sound of his breaths, the rhythm, the way his arm across you rises and falls slightly with the movement. That’s how you fall asleep, listening to Higgs breathe as he so easily slumbers at your side. He’s not haunted by nightmares and doubts and fears. 

He’s at peace right now and you hate him for it.

**.x.**

In the morning, he’s gone.

You didn’t hear him go. He left no note, no private mail. Nothing. You’re angry. You’re also afraid, because he left you alone after he told you, after he  _ convinced  _ you that you wouldn’t have to face it all by yourself. You have to swallow hard against a swell of panic as you sit in the bed with the blankets bunched around your legs. The world looms before you now as it always did, except that now its insurmountable truths are no longer veiled. 

You have choices, of course, all of them varying in levels of unpleasantness. You lie back down and try not to notice the indentation in the other pillow and the sheets. Instead you spend the next couple of hours contemplating your next course of action. You decide at length to do what you do best, and when you leave South Knot hours later on your trike, you head east and then north. You’re going back to your roots, to where you were when you first became a porter. 

You’re going home. 

**.x.**

A week passes and in that time you resume your duties with Sentencer Services. You decline any deliveries that would require you to leave the surrounding area, instead running a loop between the Distribution Centre, Mountain Knot, and the various preppers in the vicinity. It’s hard work, oftimes tedious given that winter has arrived and snow falls nearly every day to damage your cargo. Months ago, working in tandem with other porters, you’d set up a lengthy, branching zipline around the area to make traversing the peaks easier, but for the heavier loads you still need to trek on foot with a floating carrier or two in tow. 

You think about Higgs every day. You hate him every day. And, aggravatingly, you miss him. It’s not a soft, sweet longing – no, this is fueled by ire and resentment and the knowledge that you need his presence in order to remain whole. Well, as whole as you can be, given…  _ everything. _ Sometimes you think you’re strong enough to last, to endure, but then the nightmares come and you spend the days afterward so worn down from them that it manifests as physical ailments, soreness and headaches and unrelenting nausea. You’re tough – you’ve proven that – but you’re not strong enough for this. It’s only a matter of time before you give way.

Sometimes you think that maybe Higgs is testing you. For what reasons or why you are unable to fathom and attempting to do so tires you out. So you try not to, and fail, and do your best to keep on keeping on. 

Three more weeks. You’ve been spending your nights in a private room in Mountain Knot, using it as the center of your portering hub. One day, standing in front of the terminal, you decide not to take on any orders. An idea has occurred to you, unbidden, unexpected, and without question you decide to pursue it. You depart from the city with a carrier full of supplies and head west. 

It’s not an easy trip, particularly when you reach forested land. Between the trees, wind has shaped the snow into dunes that reach as high as your knees. Despite the sub-zero temperature, you’re sweating and exhausted by the time you reach the bunker you’d once reluctantly called home. The shortness of winter days means that it’s nearly dark now, which means you’ll have to spend the night. You approach the door and are assailed with memories of Higgs pinning you against it, of his breath hot against your ear. You scowl. His intrusions into your thoughts are seamless, abrupt and frequent, unwelcome reminders of how abysmally off course your life has gone. 

You unlock the door through your cuff-link interface, shove it open, and head inside. The carrier bumps along behind you with its quiet hum. The lights flicker on as you close the door and lock it. A swift look around reveals its exactly as it had been the day you’d departed against your will with Higgs. Still just unadorned dark walls that harbor the echoes of the things they had witnessed, echoes Higgs had heard. You stare at the sealed door to what had once been your room, engaged in a ferocious struggle to keep a particular selection of memories at bay. You’ve had a lot of practice over the years, which means that you are ultimately triumphant, but you feel a heavy sense of oppression settle over you anyways. You detach the carrier and leave it where it is before heading toward the room in the back that you’d bunked in before. You take off your pack, toss it on the bed, and run your hands over your face. 

You hate this place. You’d spent countless hours of your life wishing it would be destroyed. Tomorrow that wish comes true.

**.x.**

It’s all quite simple to do. You rise in the morning, feeling well rested despite your surroundings, and begin to methodically go through everything that remains in the shelter to see if any of it is worth keeping. The stuff that is amounts to a paltry sum: a few worn books you’ve yet to read and your late mother’s banjo. When those items are secured in your pack, you commence with your plan. You methodically empty the multiple canisters of accelerant you had brought with you, starting in the farthest rooms and pouring your way outward toward the door. You toss the empty canisters outside to lie beside your pack and the carrier before stepping across the threshold. You’d found your father’s flip lighter during your last walkthrough and you’re holding it now. It’s fitting, you think with grim amusement, that his lighter will spark the flames that will reduce this place to mere ruins. 

It takes three attempts for the accelerant to ignite and once it happens, it does so with a powerful burst of heat and light that make you stagger back. You grab your pack and attach the carrier to your belt before quickly walking away, not stopping until you are well beyond the sensor poles. The grasp of winter means that the early morning hours are dark, and as you watch the flickering glow of the flames your breath rises as steam in the chill air. It burns faster than you’d anticipated, though the majority of the fire rages belowground. Eventually you stir, donning your pack. You cast one last glance back at your version of hell on earth, on the smoke that rises in dark, oily plumes, before turning and walking back through the path you’d broken in the snow yesterday. 

You don’t feel better for doing this. You don’t feel lighter or happier. You do feel a sense of closure, though – this was the ending written for that particular chapter of your life. You wish you’d done it much sooner, not that it will change anything. You’ll continue being you, helplessly tangled up in webs you’d been too naive to avoid, suffocating beneath the awful weight of reality’s truths. 

**.x.**

Three days later you’re standing in front of Mountain Knot’s order terminal, paging through orders without really seeing them. Since returning from your arson task you’ve been beset by a peculiar restlessness. You want to do something; conversely, you don’t want to do anything. You look away from the terminal screen, your eyes skimming over the cavernous expanse of the depot’s loading bay, and realize you  _ need  _ to be away from here. You back away from the terminal and begin to walk up the ramp, deliberately hitting another porter’s holographic sign with your elbow just to hear it chime. 

You stand at the entrance to Mountain Knot and look around. Cloudy skies, but not too cold. Not yet, at least. You’ve got the entire day to do whatever you want and that restlessness that’s seized you decides it wants you to walk. You’ve no real destination in mind, so you head northwest, making your way up the dirt path worn into the hillside, stepping around a rusty, abandoned red trike. At the top of the incline one of your own holo signs shines at you, indicating that a zipline lies ahead. You could take the zipline and make your way up into the peaks, or even zip across the mountains and down toward the Timefall Farm. Most days you enjoy zipline excursions, largely because you poured so much time, effort, and materials into building the network. Today, though, you just feel like walking, so you do. You walk past the zipline and keep heading northwest, making your way across the snow with your hands tucked behind your pack straps and your eyes fixed ahead. 

You walk for an hour, maybe, before taking a break to sit on a large rock, gazing around at scenery that is both harsh and lovely. You try to examine your reasons for feeling so unquiet and find that there are too many. Perhaps it’s the stress of knowing what you know, of knowing  _ who  _ you know. Maybe it’s the beginning of your end, the first subtle erosions of your faculties beneath the onslaught of horror and anguish and rage you experience most nights in your dreams. 

Maybe it’s nothing.

You get up after a while, resume walking. You know there’s a storm coming. You can feel it, an unearthly awareness that needles its way up your spine. That spot at the back of your neck tightens, tingles, a warning that you should heed. You’re not going to, though. You don’t want to. You are going to push forward and whatever happens, happens. And if it’s the worst…well, even if it’s the worst, it’s not as bad as what  _ will  _ happen eventually, what will roll around if a certain someone gets his way. 

The wind picks up. Snow had been falling in infrequent patches but it begins in earnest now, white flakes that the wind buffets around with enough force that they strike you as tiny icy pellets. Even with your hood up and drawn, snowflake alight on your eyelashes, float against your cheeks. You quickly brush them away before tilting your head down, tucking your chin in beneath the upright collar of your overalls. The snow here is fresher than it was back at the bunker, meaning you can move with relative ease. You do so, trudging toward the looming vertical structures northwest of Mountain Knot. You’d always thought that from a distance they looked like crooked dark crosses, the markers of some eerie graveyard from a different time, from the World Before. 

You don’t have to look up to know the black tendrils are descending from the overcast sky. The pain at the back of your neck has already started. You keep going. It’s not that you’re not afraid, because you are – have recently been made to realize that you’ve  _ always  _ been afraid – it’s that the part of you that cares, the part of you that would have turned your ass around and marched it back to Mountain Knot has been forcibly muted. Numbed. Dialed down. Your feet keep on with their self-destructive trajectory, until you finally you stand beneath the towering structures, pain swirling at the base of your skull, blind in one eye. Your breathing is sharp and shallow until the agony recedes, until you can look around and see what creatures surround you with your altered vision.

You can hear them, moans and groans and whispering wails. Their dark, shifting forms, vessels of antimatter, drift aimlessly in the wind. An umbilical cord twists in the air before you, so close that you could reach out and touch it. You’re in the process of doing so when you remember that you wouldn’t be able to feel it if you tried, that it would pass through you, that you have no means of cutting it. You watch it for a while, slowly rippling in the wind, before you take a deep breath and step through it.

The reaction is immediate. You are detected. From your right comes the pounding sound of handsteps, and more from in front of. You keep walking. The hands rise from below, grip you by the ankles only to slither away as the blood in your bootlaces –  _ Higgs’  _ blood – destroys them. Their shrieks are deafening, alert the surrounding BTs to your presence. More handsteps and growling and accelerated breathing on your behalf and you keep walking, doggedly slogging onward through a growing pool of black. They reach for you. They wither. You walk. They keep coming until the ground around you is filled with them, oily black bodies that reach for you with desperation and hate. They  _ will  _ overwhelm you, and it’s too late now to do anything about it.

It’s hard to walk with so many of them grabbing at you, holding you. Hands are layered upon hands, pulling you forward, tugging you back. This dangerous affectlessness that has taken hold of you has its limits, apparently, because you are gripping at both your pack straps in an effort to maintain your balance. You make no sound other than to breathe as the struggle endures, though a soft cry erupts from you as the BTs finally succeed. You are dragged down to one knee.

A hand fastens around your upper arm, grip so tight as to wrench a grunt of pain from you. Higgs, of course, and he hauls you up, swings you around. 

“Boots,” he sighs, a breathless, oddly tremulous sound. He’s armed and hooded and you stare at him without speaking, wondering if the reason the whites of his eyes are showing is due to the very precarious position you were just in. You blink and it fades and what you see etched into the creases of his face are varying shades of anger and mirth. It’s a combination that should make no sense but does, considering its source. 

He’s got you by the upper arms and abruptly jerks you closer so that you stumble bodily into him, your staggered footsteps splashing through the black water as you do so. His hand cups the back of your head and forces it down until your brow rests against his shoulder. You resist, of course, are rewarded by an ache in your neck to accompany the faint echoes of pain that still reside there from your DOOMS. His other arm goes around your waist, keeps you pressed against him.

He leans his head against yours, his voice soft but carrying within it both censure and sardonic admiration. “You never cease to amaze me, Boots, because of all the ways to go out this is one of the worst. There’s no peaceful transition, no heavenly ascendence, no chorus of angels waiting to serenade you once you cross the threshold. It’s brutal and agonizing, and you just –”

He breaks off, shakes his head, lips grazing against your temple as he does so. “You just marched right into it. Unafraid.” He huffs a laugh. “Brave little idiot, aren’t you? I thought we had an understanding of how it was going to be from now on?”

You place one hand flat against the cool smoothness of his BB pod and push yourself away. His hold loosens enough that you gain the space to tip your head back to see his face clearly. 

“I broke,” you tell him calmly. “I’m broken. You gonna put me down now?”

His eyes narrow as he studies you, tilting his head. “You said it,” you remind him with the same flat calm. “You said that if I broke you’d put me down.”

“Is that what this is?” He catches your chin between thumb and forefinger, leaning in closer until the blue of his eyes fills your view. “Just a way to get me to pull the trigger?”

You’re unprepared for his kiss. His mouth crashes down on yours, brutal and punishing and you feel your lip split beneath the force of it. He rips himself away, leaving you breathless, before shoving you hard. You stumble and fall, expecting hard ground but finding instead only the awful buoyancy of the darkness. The BTs had stilled upon his arrival but had remained and they react to you now, rising up to reveal their shifting, inky forms, their slick hands seizing you. Panic, so mercifully absent when you had been upright, floods through you now. Their fingers slide across your face, probe at your lips and you clamp them shut, breathing hard through your nostrils. 

Higgs circles you slowly, one step at a time, a decisive tread calculated to drive home the stark difference in your positions. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Once they pull you under, this part of the valley is gone. It’ll be a nice little prelude to my plan… Mountain Knot obliterated–” he snaps a finger, “– all nice and neat.  _ Eighty-four thousand _ souls laid to rest with  _ you _ to thank.”

You are sinking. The blackness fills your mouth, your nose, and you blink rapidly, unable to breathe. Abruptly you bob upward, choking, spitting out the bitter liquid. Higgs has completed his circuit and stands before you, unmoving. “This is what you wanted,” he repeats, “isn’t it?”

You shake your head. Your body is floating but they are anchoring you, ready to pull you under at his directive. Their fingers flex and twitch against you, around you, transmitting clearly their lust for your warmth and your life. That awful hollowness that has grown inside you, that has driven you here – it’s filling now with terror, with the bleak yet powerful imperative for your own survival. A hand slides over your mouth, wet and bracingly cold, and unable to speak you desperately shake your head again.

“No?” He drops to a crouch, reaches out, touches the hand covering your mouth. It rapidly shrivels away. He rubs at the wetness it left behind with his sleeve, slow and gentle. “What is it you need, Boots?”

There’s only one answer, dictated by what existence has become. “You.”

The side of his mouth crooks up. “Me.”

He places two fingers against the ground and the waters start to vanish. The hands that had restrained you push you away, turn you until you feel solidness beneath your knees, until your fingers are clutching snow. You are soaked from your ordeal. Around you snow whirls about, driven by the wind that chills you. You’re shivering. 

Higgs stands and offers you his hand. You take it, stumbling to one side once upright from vertigo brought on by one terrible thing or another. He steadies you, gripping you by the elbows, pulling you closer step by hesitant step until you are clinging to him, heedless of anything but how torn you are between the perpetually shifting rules of your reality. 

“Hold tight,” he tells you. You close your eyes. 

When it’s over you open them again to see, over his shoulder, walls painted black with lines of blue lighting running along their top edges. A safe house. It is much warmer in here but you’re still trembling. It’s a long while before you can move, before the dizziness and the sickness brought on by teleporting fade. You lean against him tiredly, your limbs wracked by shivers, until you are able to muster up the strength to move. As you pull away from him you run your hands over your face. He put you into danger and he rescued you from it. You fear him, you hate him. You need him. You want him. Whatever inexplicable bonds there are that keep you functioning, keep you whole – they are failing.  _ You  _ are failing and you fear that with every step you take now, you will be littering the ground behind you with frayed fragments of yourself.

Higgs takes you by the wrist. You follow as he tugs you forward, lost in the havoc of your own thoughts. You are wooden, a husk, unresponsive until you feel him tugging at the upper snaps of your coveralls. You stiffen, your eyes moving to his face.

“Shower,” is his explanation as he undoes the top snap. Your hands fly up, catching him by the wrists. “Boots,” he says, both exasperated and amused, “You’re freezing. You’re filthy.”

“Y-you,” you stammer out, “how can you – how can you–”

He arches a brow and waits in vain for you to rediscover some modicum of articulacy. “I can’t,” you heave on a fractured sigh. “I can’t.”

“You can,” he disagrees amiably, “and you will. That’s what I’m here for. That’s what I’ll do.”

“Hurt me?”

He doesn’t pause in his task, undoing two more snaps in a row, revealing the zipper beneath. “Seemed like you were in need of some enlightenment. I was just… helping you along.”

“You would have let them–”

“No,” he interrupts, stopping again to look you directly in the eye. “ _ You  _ would have let them. You were just about to do so when I so fortuitously arrived, so why don’t we stop making me the bad guy–” a pause and a flicker of a grin “– just this once?”

You have nothing to say. He resumes his actions, divesting you of your coveralls in an efficient and impersonal manner. You respond with mechanical obedience to his quiet commands, lifting first one leg and then the other so that he can pull the wet, dirtied fabric free. Beneath you wear insulated activewear of high quality, a necessary expense in your line of work. When his fingers begin to roll up the hem of your shirt you snap back to immediate awareness. You swat at him, backing away. He raises both his hands in the signal of surrender, his chuckle low and soft.

“I can do it.” you snap unnecessarily. 

“Nobody saying you can’t.”

“Turn around.”

He makes a show of it, hands still raised, slowly pivoting until he’s facing the door. You turn toward the shower, then look back at him. You want to demand that he leaves, but that’s not going to happen so you save yourself the effort. Instead you shed the rest of your clothing, which is difficult considering it’s soaked through and stubbornly inclined to stick to every bend and curve of your body. Nude, you clutch your sodden clothing to you as your eyes dart between the shower stall and Higgs, who still waits with his back turned. Your shivering increases now that you’re exposed, and you abruptly lay your indecision to rest, letting the clothes fall. You know he’ll turn the moment he hears the shower opening but you’ve reached that place where the things you  _ should  _ care about are just… of little or faded importance.

You turn the water on as hot as it will go and the pressure of it is nearly painful as it beats down upon you. Head bent, you face the wall and wait for the jagged ice that’s encased both your heart and soul to melt, knowing it never will. Your eyes close as the tremors subside, as the heat warms your muscles, and you inch closer to the wall until you can rest your head against it. It’s as though this small enclosure is a world unto itself, devoid of all the horrid things that lurk elsewhere. A ridiculous notion, yes, but an effective one, because you find yourself relaxing despite everything. 

_ I broke,  _ you’d told Higgs.  _ I’m broken.  _ And you are. You are simply parts of what you once were, disordered and bent. You’d already realized that right and wrong no longer had any meaning, and that’s why, when you hear the shower door hiss open behind you, you remain where you are. You feel his presence behind you and you turn your head to look at him over your shoulder, peering through strands of sopping hair to see him regarding you with an expression that makes your heart stutter in your chest. 

“Room for two?” he asks, and there’s a rough edge to his voice that has you catching your breath.

You say nothing. He remains motionless, as naked as you are, though drier as you’re hogging the majority of the shower’s spray. Your mind skims along every scenario that might follow and then it strikes you – he’s just  _ asked  _ you. What happens next is  _ your  _ choice and yours alone, and you know, somehow, that if you were to shout and scream or dissolve into sobs that he would leave – probably not without some kind of remark to piss you off, but he’d go. What he’s proposing now is what he offered before – a fucked up kind of comfort and an equally fucked sense of understanding stemming from the knowledge that binds you both together. It could be a reprieve. It could be solace.

“Yes,” you whisper finally. 

**.x.**

You already knew he was capable of tenderness, although it’s usually accompanied by some form of cruelty. He’s tender now as he washes the remaining black stains from your body, as though he knows that you’re held together by the most delicate of threads. His touch as it moves over you is light and soothing, his hands caressing yet efficient, entirely dedicated to the task at hand. 

The toll that being a porter has taken upon your body is easy to see. Your shoulders, back, and hips bear the signs of the heavy cargo you’ve carried almost every day for the last two years, patches of rough and blemished skin. Your fingers are calloused from gripping your pack straps for long hours at a time, your heels the same from the countless miles you’ve walked. Your knees and elbows are abraded from the tumbles you’ve taken. He explores all of these with a light touch that stops just shy of being sensual, something that should be impossible considering you are both nude and in close proximity. When you’d voiced your agreement for him to join you, you’d expected… well, the obvious. A physical outlet that you could use to forget, to  _ feel.  _ That he hasn’t pushed it to that point, that he is treating you with delicacy now… it’s confounding, and gratifying, and  _ needed.  _

You haven’t turned around. You’re still facing the shower wall, head lowered. He works slowly, lathering you with careful attention. At his unspoken prompting you lift your arm and he washes it, his fingers sliding down its length until they find your hand. He twines his fingers with yours, turns your arm into the water’s spray, and you watch as the suds are chased from your skin. He continues, circling around you until he’s behind you, and the shudder that grips you as his hands glide across the expanse of your back is not from being cold. He’s thorough, meticulous, and you find yourself softening beneath his touch. He pushes the wet mass of your hair to one side, exposing the back of your neck and then you feel his lips pressing there. As before, warm ripples of euphoria originate at the point of contact and expand outward and you instinctively lean back against him. He’s aroused; you can feel his erection pressed against your back. That knowledge has you swallowing thickly, closing your eyes as his lips skim across the slope of your shoulder.

This is insanity. You know it. An hour ago you’d deliberately walked into the middle of a BT storm, riddled with an apathy that very nearly killed you. Higgs had saved you and then shoved you back into the mess to prove a point and now here you both are, the air between you rife with the promise of an intimacy that should be –  _ is  _ – unfathomable. You try to turn around but he stops you, gripping your shoulders firmly and holding you in place until you relent. He then resumes his task, taking his time, indulging his inquisitive drive to know the bends and hollows of your upper body. You want to do the same – you want to learn the shape of him beneath your fingers. You reach for him but he shakes his head, gently bats your hand aside.

“When I’m done,” he says in that low, intimate tone that sets your heart hammering against your ribs yet again.

And so you wait. You wait while he finishes his task of cleansing you, wait as he steps behind you again, wait for his touch and your body’s reaction to it. His lips ghost against  _ that  _ spot once more and you arch back against him because even through that merest of touches you are flooded with feeling. His hands settle at your hips, skim down them and then up again, along your ribs and higher still. He pulls away suddenly, leaving you feeling bereft, and you watch as he moves around you. You take three steps back, giving him the space needed to insert himself between you and the shower’s spray. Your hands are on his forearms without you really realizing it, and you tug him closer. He obeys your unspoken directive, smiling faintly down at you while water cascades over his shoulders. 

Your eyes roam the nude expanse of him, noting scars and spots and what might be the very faded remains of a tattoo circling around his upper arm. There is a striking difference between you both, aside from the obvious – his flesh is devoid of the hand-shaped bruises caused by the grasp of the beached things. Your brow furrows as your eyes drop to examine your own body and the bruises that decorate it, the dark shapes of many hands covering nearly the entirety of your legs. They don’t hurt and never will, as experience has taught you, but it’s still a disconcerting thing to see.

“They’ve never left a mark on me,” he tells you, “not even before…”

You quirk a brow at him.  _ Before?  _ But his attention has already refocused. He touches the tip of his forefinger to a spot low on your stomach where a singular handprint resides. It must have happened when they’d pulled you to your knees, you think, and then your thoughts derail as he places his hand flat against that bruise, splaying his fingers. His head dips toward yours and you tilt yours back, clutch at his elbows as you part your mouth beneath his. It’s a hard kiss and you feel your lip tear again beneath the force of it, experiencing the flaring tang of blood as his tongue glides over yours. 

You’re pressed against him now, the hard line of his cock tight against your belly. He’s moved his hand and it’s cupping one breast, thumb strumming across your nipple as you exhale hot and wanton into his mouth. You are more than pliant beneath his touch – you are biddable, moldable, willing to take on whatever form he requires, wanting to be filled and used and remade. 

He knows it. His arm goes around your waist, jerks you against him. You wriggle your hand between the two of you, fully intending to wrap your fingers around him and stroke until he makes the kind of noises you’re making right now. There’s an order to this inevitable sequence of events, however, and he won’t let you skip ahead. He catches at your wrist and pulls it up, unfurls your fingers, licks a slow, hot line up the length of your palm. 

“Out there,” he orders with a thrust of his chin. 

**.x.**

Higgs was right, sort of. Now that you’ve given up on all of it, he  _ is  _ the only thing that matters – for this short interlude, at least. The horrific revelations he forced you to endure had filled you with an irreparable blight, a coldness that took up residence within your marrow. It’s thawing now though, every time he touches you. He’s on his back on the bed and you’re astride him and you feel warmer, inside and out, than you have for a very long time. You’re gripping his cock, pumping it almost lazily. You derive a deep, primal sense of satisfaction as you watch from beneath the lowered sweep of your eyelashes the way his hips roll, the way the muscles in his neck tighten, the way his nostrils flare as he inhales sharply. This is your power over him, ephemeral as it may be, and you  _ will _ exult in it. 

His eyelids flutter and then he catches your gaze, holds it. His mouth arcs in a smirk and it holds even as you twist your hand around his dick, even as eyes become momentarily unfocused. There’s such arrogance in his expression, even now, even with your hand gripping this so very vulnerable part of him. This is who he is and you know it. Can’t deny it. Still want to fuck him, yeah, so you stroke faster, lean over, kiss him in a way that’s closer to biting. That he enjoys it is undeniable – within the tight cage of your fingers, his cock throbs. 

Long moments later he stops you, gripping your wrist in an iron hold. You rear back, breathing hard, note with a pleased eye the smear of blood at the corner of his mouth – his or yours, maybe both. You’ve stopped stroking him but you haven’t let go. Precum has beaded along his tip and it glistens on your fingers. 

“This ends,” he rasps, “with me inside you.”

What follows is a flurry of movement as you shift, as he moves, and you bite your lip on a feverish expletive as you slide down onto him. Despite how wet you are it takes some time to work him in and he waits with barely restrained patience. Once he’s fully embedded he makes a sound somewhere between a sigh of relief and a groan, his head craning back into the pillows. His throat is bared to you and you watch it move as he swallows, observe the tautness of the tendons there. This is  _ your  _ doing,  _ your _ influence, and maybe that’s why your hand is suddenly there, fingers curving against the column of his neck. His eyes snap back to you, their blue depths hinting at the shameless grin that is about to follow. You don’t want to see it, so you let your head fall back, let your eyes close as you begin to move.

You feel his blunt fingernails digging into the flesh of your hips as he pulls you down, as he thrusts upward. There’s nothing tender in this any longer. You are frenzy and fury as you ride him, filled with a wildness you’ve never known before, a wildness that you willingly surrender yourself to. There are only the sounds and smells of sex, only the infuriating way he’s able to fill you so perfectly that you have to clamp your mouth shut to prevent a whimper from escaping. You’re both pieces of different puzzles, edges jagged and misaligned, and this is what happens when you force them together: chaos and broken rapture, and you’re drowning in both. 

No small part of you hates this, hates that it’s come to this, hates that you  _ need  _ it. And you do need it, you  _ do, _ because this warmth you’ve been missing, this heat your soul no longer has – that’s what it is to be  _ alive.  _ Higgs knows that you are composed of warring emotions and thoughts, seeks to distract you from them. He's adept at it. His hands are on your breasts, cupping, fingers tightening on your nipples and tweaking just to the point of pain. It feeds your frenetic lust, has you squeezing your fingers around his neck as you ride him. It’s been  _ so long  _ and you need more, need it  _ all–  _

“Boots,” he rumbles, a thrumming you feel against your fingers.

Your eyes had closed again but they open at the sound of his voice. You’re confronted with an oddity, clouds of small black and gold particles floating in the air all around you. You become very still, look down at him with wide, questioning eyes.

He shakes his head. “Not me. This is all you.”

He sounds impressed. The particles bob gently as though buoyed by a breeze, the gold ones glinting in the overhead light. Higgs abruptly moves beneath you, rolls you both over. He fucks into you slowly as his lips find yours. You forget about the particles you’ve somehow summoned as he hits the deepest point inside of you, as he holds himself there, as he grabs the underside of your thigh and pulls your leg up. Your lip is still bleeding, or his is, and you scent copper in the air between you. Your breathing becomes erratic as he steadily increases his pace and then the orgasm hits, stampeding through you with enough force that you feel light-headed and weak. 

Higgs’ hips stutter as he nears his own end, and seconds later he drives into you so hard you cry out. He swallows the sound, replaces it with his rolling groan, his mouth nipping over your jaw and neck as he thrusts through the aftershocks. He lays atop you, heavy and sweat-soaked and warm, his breathing just as ragged as yours, his head wedged in the hollow between your neck and shoulder. He nuzzles you and the roughness of his beard elicits a shiver. You’re dazed, maybe, lying here infused with a languorous heat. Somehow your fingers find their way to his head to idly comb through the short dark strands of his hair. 

He stirs eventually, pulling out of you and rolling to the side. He tows you with him with one arm roped around your waist. You’re on your side, face to face, filled with a weary satisfaction that is only possible because you’ve become just as broken as the world is.

“I should’ve known,” he says in a voice filled entirely with post-coital huskiness, “that fucking you would be…” 

He trails off with an indolent smile. Your desire to know what he would have said is trumped by another concern. Your words are breathy. “What were they?”

He shrugs. “Some new manifestation of your DOOMS.”

“I–”

But your protestation becomes a startled bleat as he abruptly slides downward, as his mouth finds your nipple. Once again your fingers are tangled in his hair, pulling this time, and his eyes blaze their way up your body until they find yours.

“I’ve spent a long time wondering how you taste,” he says, somehow seeming both playful and serious, "so how about you indulge me?”

His words reignite the smoldering embers within you and in response, you feel a rush of heat that pools between your legs. Your fingers slowly loosen their hold. He lowers his head, mouth laving a path downward from your breast. You part your legs when he nudges them, arch your back when, after a few seconds of searching, his tongue finds your clit. Your hands clutch at the rumpled blankets as he tastes you. He leaves no doubt in your mind that he’s enjoying every single minute of it just as much as you are. 

Minutes later, as you lay gasping in the wake of another orgasm, he slides himself into you. His mouth meets yours, wet from your pussy, carrying your scent. It inflames you. You wrap your legs around him, lost to mindless pleasure yet again, and dig your fingernails into his back with every rough thrust he gives. It’s not long before that swell of euphoria crests within you once more, and in the seconds before it all erupts you drag your eyes away from his face to see that the particles have returned, hanging thick in the air surrounding you both. Your cry is soft, thready, and you buck beneath him as you climax.

“Boots,” he pants into your ear, and then a heartbeat later he growls out your real name as he stiffens and begins to spill inside you. You’ve turned your head to the side and you watch, still breathing quickly, as the particles begin to fade away, disappearing one after the other in rapid succession.

_ What,  _ you wonder, dizzy and exhausted and utterly satiated,  _ am I becoming? _


End file.
